


Herald's Miracle

by hinotoriii



Series: Oscar Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hinotoriii/pseuds/hinotoriii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall of Haven and the rise of a new and terrifying threat, many are left to believe that the Herald of Andraste has died after attempting to protect them one final time. As the Inquisition struggles to try and push itself forward once more, they soon discover the fate of their friend and figurehead may have been more favourable than they imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long, multi-chaptered fic, which is a little bit odd considering that Oscar's series up until now has been small little story snippets. It will go into more detail upon exploring a point that the main game slightly glosses over, so if you haven't yet played Inquisition or haven't gotten as far enough to unlock Skyhold, I suggest you keep away to avoid mid-game spoilers.
> 
> There will be mentions of things that happen in some of the previous story snippets uploaded for Oscar, so you might want to check the ones that are set before this takes place. It's not something that you need to worry too much about if you wish to return to it later, it just puts things into a bit of a better perspective as to how close Dorian and Oscar are at this point :)

  
On such a breathless night as this  
Upon my brow the lightest kiss  
I walked alone

_\- White Queen (As It Began)_   
  


* * *

  
  
There's a solemnness in the air around them all as the crowd mixed up of village civilians and Inquistion soldiers continues to trudge through the thick blankets of snow. If one were to look at the faces of these travellers, they would meet the grim expressions those would wear when they felt lost, broken deep within the very soul. 

They would meet the expressions worn by mourners.  
  
A staff lowers into the thick whiteness, tanned hands gripped firmly around it as the owner drags themselves forward with force. Dorian lifts his head up to look at the vastness of the land before them, yet he does not really see the view spread out before him.   
  
For he too is mourning, just as the others are.

  
\------ --------- ------

 

" _We need to get out of here, now!”_

 _“Are you insane!? The Herald is trapped, we need to save him!”_   
  
_“Pay attention, Tevinter! The Herald is dead! We've already lost!”_   
  
_A heartbeat stutters, hope sinking deep within him. Dorian swallows, his hand clasping tightly around both of the staffs he now holds, staring back at the Seeker as he shouts a response over the roars of a dragon and the crackling of flames burning high around them._   
  
_“I don't believe that! He could still be --”_   
  
_“We stay and it will be to our deaths! Now come on, we must escape while we can!”_   
  
_Varric looks on worriedly, avoiding both of the two arguing. Dorian wants to say more, to keep fighting against what the others more than likely know to be a more logical choice for their own survival, yet a part of him also understands that they are working on borrowed time. Time which is quickly dwindling by the mere second. The Herald has brought them this, has provided them with a narrow opportunity to escape. It won't come again, not now he's --_   
  
_Dorian shakes his head, not wanting to even consider the thought. A life of a great and selfless man for all their safety, what kind of a trade was that? What Maker would play so cruelly with his children and their fates?_   
  
_“Alright.”_   
  
_It hurts to simply consider, let alone actually say, yet it's what he would have wanted. Or so Dorian has to allow himself to believe. The Herald would not have wanted them to risk their lives for his alone. Not with this._

_And so, they run._

 

_\------ --------- ------_

 

 It's when Dorian sits before one of the small fires in the camp they've managed to set up that he's left with his thoughts once again.  
  
He's been able to keep himself busy since they stopped for the night, lending aid to those who are injured. He's not skilled in the healing arts, yet Dorian knows enough about potion making and a handful of other spells which have so far come in useful for various wounds and ailments. It's horrific, seeing so many hurt and even near death at one time and in one place. Whoever their attacker was they did not discriminate with their enemies, as there are numerous numbers of men, women and children with injuries and burns that need better attention than what any of them can truly provide with the current limitation of supplies.  
  
Stopping to sit and have a moment or two alone however does little to help. If anything it makes things worse, as Dorian has nothing to distract him of the memory of everything they've lost. Haven is gone, burnt to the ground and buried beneath a mountain of snow. People are dead. The Herald --  
  
\-- Well. Perhaps the Herald had expected nothing short of a suicide mission. It did not make losing him any less difficult either way.

 

\------ --------- ------

 

 _“What was that?”_  
  
 _“It's coming from the mountains, look!”_  
  
 _Dorian follows the direction of where Cullen points, quickly noting what it is he is referring to. The thundering sound drumming in his ears is from the snow crashing downwards in its path, growing louder and more ferocious as it moves. Before long the avalanche covers where they had narrowly escaped from, drowning the red-coloured Templars in an endless sea of white. Hopefully, the same wave of snow also drowned whoever or whatever it was the Templars followed too._  
  
 _Dorian doesn't focus on that however. Instead his brow furrows deeply at the sight they’re watching unravel in the distance, an aching pain burning strongly in his chest before being swiftly replaced with growing anger. Without thinking he turns to the person on his other side, glaring at Cassandra darkly from where she still attempts to catch her breath. He points back in the direction of where they escaped._  
  
 _“He lived! You believed so fully that he was gone, and yet the Herald_ lived! _You had us all leave him behind!”_

_Cassandra shoots a glare back at him, equally as frustrated as Dorian is judging by her irritated response._

_“What would you have had us do, hm? Die along with him? His cause was a lost one, Tevinter. We could not have saved him even if we had turned back. He was gone.”_  
  
 _“But he wasn’t, was he? Not really. And because of you, we didn't even try to take him with us,' Dorian sneers, taking a menacing step towards the Seeker. 'You left a good man - one who_ trusted _you - to die a horrible death_ on his own. _Weren't you one of the people that dragged him into this Inquisition of yours in the first place? Was that so you could sign his death sentence ahead of time, or so you could wait to do so later?”_

_“That’s enough!”_

_Cullen’s commanding tone causes both Dorian and Cassandra to face him. He looks at them with disappointment and shock, a look which says he is unwilling to believe what it is that he’s hearing._

_“Blaming each other for things that are out of our hands is not going to help us. You both know that,” He says. Cullen tilts his head in the direction of where their remaining people were standing, and when Dorian glances at them all he sees is the same expressions worn upon all their faces. Fear, shock, loss. Such powerful emotions that made all of them feel small and alone after just losing their base of operations._

“That _is our main concern right now. Those people. We have sick and injured with us, and more than enough fear felt by all. We_ must _pull together, even if we’ve lost the Herald. Don’t make his sacrifice meaningless by your petty arguing!”_

_A quietness passes between the three of them. A deep feeling of shame sits in Dorian’s gut, knowing that the Commanders words are correct. He swallows the lump forming in his throat, tightening his grip around his staff as he tries not to cast another look at the people waiting to move on to find promised safety._

_“You are right, Commander,” Cassandra says through a defeated sigh of her own. Her head is bowed in what can only be her own feeling of shame, until she looks up once more. “I apologise. We should keep moving, find somewhere safe to camp for the night ahead. There are too many wounded for us to travel far.”_

_Dorian doesn’t say anything, but he does agree. The night will fall soon, and there are still many that need the aid of their healers._

_The only thing any of them could be certain of was that it was going to be a long, tiring night._

 

_\------ --------- ------_

  
The memory strikes Dorian hard, leaving him alone with both his own pain and shame. Thinking back on it now he knows he should not have blamed Cassandra for what had happened, that he should not have said such cruel words. But in the moment he had been upset, wanting to channel his frustration at their predicament _somewhere,_ anywhere he was able to. She had just been the easiest target, the closest to shift an imaginary blame on to. They had not spoken since, but perhaps for the time being it was better that way. Allow them to lick their own wounds in private, so to speak.

He attempts to push the incident out of his mind. Instead Dorian sighs, choosing to reach to where he had dumped the few supplies he had managed to grab in his haste before leaving Haven. He was unable to salvage much - perhaps it was a hidden blessing that he had been travelling throughout the South all this time so lightly - but there is one thing he had made sure to keep with him.

Sticking out of a shabby, tired old bag is a golden staff. It is far from clean, with dirt spreading and littering it’s way over the surface, managing to somehow sit itself tight within all the intricate corners and edges of the dragon which had been carefully crafted upon the top. The fabric which was used to provide comfort to the users hand whilst crafting has come loose; fraying and pulling away from where it should have been wrapped and attached securely.

The staff has seen better days. But then, so once did it’s owner.

Dorian's attention travelled down to the bottom of the staff, focusing on where the blade which was attached at the end had shattered. He remembers the moment it had happened, how the Herald had ran forward to attack the form of what had once appeared to be a Templar Knight-Commander before the lyrium had taken root and robbed him of his humanity. He remembers how the blade had hit against the crystallized stone growing from the man, and how it had done little damage or effect at all in weakening him. The Herald had instead made distance enough to cast spells towards the creature and the rest of their remaining enemies, or at least he had up until the arrival of the archdemon had caused him to drop his staff.

Dorian had been close to where the object had fallen, and so he had reached and picked it up with the intention of throwing it back for the Herald to use. However, he never had the chance to return it.

He turns the staff over in his hands, inspecting the damage and dirt that coated it. The broken blade reminds him of the first full conversation he had shared with the Herald after their return from Redcliffe, one which had taken place not long after he had decided to join the Inquisition they were slowly forming. Dorian’s own staff blade had been weakened to the point that it needed replacing, and whilst the blacksmith would not help him, Oscar had offered to with kindness.

_“I can help you if you like. Believe it or not, I have quite the knack when it comes to fixing things. I break them enough before putting them back together again after all.”_

Oh, but when would the world stop taking friends away from him? Dorian had already lost Alexius a long time ago -- lost the man to grief and the madness of the Venatori and their worshipping over whoever this _‘Elder One’_ of theirs was -- and it was already a given that he would never see Felix again. He had just found someone else he could consider a valuable friend to have -- Dorian would even gone as far to say that Oscar had quickly become his best friend, even if he was really the only one he had left -- and just like the others he had been taken away so cruelly. Taken away not only from Dorian, but from them all.

Oscar likely had held no idea of the true impact he had upon the lives of those he surrounded himself with.

“Mind if I sit with you Sparkler?”

Pulled out of his thoughts, Dorian looks to where Varric stands near him. The dwarf gives him a small attempt at a smile, although Dorian can see that it carries a heavy weight to it.

“No reason why you shouldn’t,” Dorian replies, turning his attention back to the staff. They are quiet for a long moment before Varric chooses to respond, nodding towards the item sitting in Dorian’s lap before doing so.

“That’s his staff, isn’t it?”

Without speaking, Dorian gives a single nod.

“I thought it was. What are you planning to do with it?”

For a long time Dorian remains silent, focusing more on the staff. Varric waits patiently, allowing Dorian the opportunity to respond or choose to ignore his previous question. Dorian eventually let’s out a heavy breath, closing his eyes as his shoulders sag with his own exhaustion.

“I don’t know. It’s not as if I was expecting to be holding on to it for this long to start with,” He pauses, giving a small shake of his head before he continues. “I’ll probably wait until we find somewhere more permanent to stay. Then perhaps I'll hand it over to the Inquisition's advisors. They can … make a tasteful decision as to how to display it that could honor what he did for us all.”

“That sounds good,” Varric replies, nodding. He is frowning however, and with a sigh he reaches a hand up to rub at his creased forehead. “‘ _Somewhere more permanent’._ Hell, I hadn’t even let myself consider the thought that the Inquisition would continue to move forward after this. You sound much more confident than I feel about it’s future.”

Dorian huffs out a feeble laugh from under his breath. “Not likely. It just … it has to, doesn’t it? Continue, that is. Especially with what we saw happen to Haven.”

“I don’t know Sparkler. I’d like to say it would, but even if it did … it wouldn’t be the same. People’s faith -- it’s shaken right now. The Herald was their shining beacon, seen as a prophet sent from the Maker himself and now that he’s gone? You can’t be surprised if they’re skeptical about what happens next.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Varric gives another heavy sigh, letting his hand fall to his side once more.

“Shit. We’re really screwed this time no matter what ends up happening. I mean we were pretty screwed before when we had a hole in the sky to deal with on its own, but we’re even more screwed now.”

“That’s one way to put it, I guess,” Dorian says, looking up finally to cast Varric an attempt at a smile. It’s forced and barely there, yet the effort seems to be worth enough for Varric. It’s the most that can really be offered for now.

“How is it that we seem to be doing real good at losing the people that seem to want to make a difference in this world, eh? Just before this whole mess started we lost the Divine herself, and now we’ve lost our Herald too. Isn’t it about time we’re owed some sort of break, or at least a chance where we don’t lose someone who tried their hardest to fix the broken things like the two of them did?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Dorian replies. “It would be preferable than the shit luck we’ve currently been dealt with. It’s like adding salt into the wound that there’s also now an archdemon flying around. Should I even ask if things can get any worse, or do you reckon that would be tempting fate a bit too much?”

Varric gives a small, barely audible chuckle at that.

“It might, given how things are going for us so far,” He hesitates for a moment, smile and humour faltering into seriousness once again. “The Herald though … Oscar -- he _was_ a good man. There’s no one here that would doubt that now after what he did for us. Not for a second. It's just a damn shame we lost him.”

Dorian stays silent, not knowing what he can really say in response to such a thing other than agreeing. Instead, he focuses on the ache Varric’s words cause him to feel deep within his chest.

With all the people he’s lost before, nothing has managed to hurt quite as much as losing Oscar does now.

Dorian hasn't been able to understand or work out why that is.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Each time he does his vision grows a little less dark, less fuzzy; his mind starts to wake from its slumber just a little bit more. The movements are sluggish and slow, each one seeming to drain more energy from him than he thinks it really should.

He blinks for a third time, only this time when he does Oscar tries to keep his eyes open afterwards.

He's not exactly sure where he is, only managing to make out from what he sees in the dimmed light around him it's some kind of hidden icy cavern. It takes a bit of time for Oscar to remember how he got himself into such an unusual area in the first place, a sudden and sharp pain shooting its way up through his arm helping to jog his foggy memory.

Haven was burning. Flames were everywhere, burning the wooden houses and the few numbers of tents they had set up. He had decided to try and trigger an avalanche as a distraction whilst the others escaped -- which he somehow succeeded in doing -- yet there was an archdemon present and threatening them all too. It flew, high in the sky, before barreling down and destroying what had been built.

And there was another with the archdemon. Oscar remembers his face, near monstrous in its appearance. He struggles to think for a second, trying to remember what the strangers name had been. Cory ... Coryphe -

Corypheus.

A sick, twisting feeling makes itself known deep within his stomach once the name finally comes to him, but Oscar isn't quite sure if it's a reaction caused by his own fear or by how wounded he currently is. He hasn't even tried to stand on his feet yet, although he knows he should if he hopes to ever see sunlight again --

He freezes in mid thought, hearing something approaching from close by.

It’s there. In the distance, approaching the place where he has fallen into. Loud screeches and howls, those of which can only ever belong to some kind of demon wandering free from the fade. Demons which spawn almost as if from thin air, stalking the lands until they manage to find their prey.

This time, their prey isn't moving enough to make a hasty escape.

Oscar's heartbeat quickens as he hears the noises they make grow louder. He needs to create a plan, but with how dazed he still feels it's proving rather tricky to formulate one on the spot. He has no staff, no other weapons such as knifes upon his person to use against them. He can feel his own energy is depleted so much it can barely even support in keeping him awake, let alone his use of attempting to summon any mana. That leaves the use of magic out of the question entirely.

If Oscar doesn’t think or come up with something else quickly, he’s going to die for certain.

The demons continue to move in closer, and as he casts his attention to the only tunnel leading in or out of the cavern Oscar spots the shadowy shapes of the demons, swaying in their approach. Hunched hooded nightmares, appearing to hover slightly from above the ground.

Despair demons. Of course.

Because he isn’t currently in enough despair, Oscar tells himself.

One of the despair demons let out another loud screech. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar spots how the marked hand is glowing, brighter than it usually would. He can see the green light through the thin material of his gloves, noticing how it seems to be growing in its intensity. An odd sensation flows through it, one which Oscar hasn’t felt from the mark before.

He glances up at the incoming threat before him once again. With no other option appearing present, Oscar decides to push his hand forward towards the demons, gritting his teeth with the agony the movement causes him.

A green light suddenly fills the area of the cavern, looking as if it is creating some kind of hole in the very atmosphere itself. Oscar squints his eyes against the brightness of it, listening to how the demons sounds grow to become desperate and loud, piercing to the ears. He watches the way the light from his hand appears to suck the demons towards the direction of the void now before him, the force of it's pull much too powerful compared to their futile struggle to break free from it. All at once they disappear before his own eyes, and once the demons are all but gone the light growing from his hand dims, closing them away into whatever place it is they’ve now been sent to.

The light fades away entirely, leaving only the mark itself to glow from beneath his glove like it had been before. As he continues to heave deep breathes from the reality of how close a call he had just avoided Oscar stares down at his hand with wide eyes, wondering what on earth it was that he had just seen happen.

After a while Oscar eventually looks away from his marked hand and instead turns his head to where the demons had come from, noticing both eerie silence and the tunnel from before. He reasons that the demons had to have come from _somewhere_ originally before stumbling into the cavern, and Oscar decides then that if he has any hope of escaping and finding his way back to the remainder of the Inquisition, the route before him is the only option for him to take. It could lead to a dead end or send him in circles, however to Oscar anything is better than simply laying on the ground and waiting for death to take him.

Carefully he tries to stand, the sudden movements causing his head to spin once more. Every part of his body feels as if it is screaming at him to stop, but Oscar knows that he can’t. Not yet. He can’t give in until he’s at least tried to find the others. His marked hand limps heavily by his side, and as he rises onto his feet Oscar’s legs feel like jelly under the pressing weight of his own body. He takes a tentative step forward, and in doing so he sets off a sharp and unbearable pain from his middle which causes him to stop and instinctively grab his stomach.

When he moves his hand away, Oscar notices that his glove is stained red with his own blood.

A wound, open and bleeding, and Oscar has no pack or resources on him which he can use to bandage himself with. Instead, he presses his hand back against the wound, hoping that the pressure he can provide will be enough to see him as far as he needs to go.

He starts to stumble his way towards the tunnel, and while he does Oscar prays that he doesn’t have to travel far to find someone he knows.


	2. Chapter 2

It is with great effort Oscar stumbles towards the remains of a fire pit.

The wind is wicked around him, blustering ever more wildly as the light of the sky above darkens. Oscar has his thin coat pulled around himself, a poor attempt at trying to keep away some of the cold as well as to prevent the ends from hitting his already battered body like a whip.

Ever since making it out of the cavern he awoke in all he’s been able to make out around him is the vast expanse of snow. It appears endless to his eyes, seemingly touching every corner of the world. Oscar has long since lost the feeling of his feet from within his worn boots, the sensation of them even existing numb and forgotten to his current state of mind. Each heavy breath he draws is met with an exhale of cloudy air, his body shuddering as it passes by his cracked, dry lips and escapes him.

With both the coldness and the snow around him only seeming to grow worse, Oscar can’t help the way apprehension and fear have managed to dig their sharp, vicious claws deep within his very bones and soul.

Oscar falls to his knees next to the fire pit, sinking further into the thick, chilled blanket of nature's birth below him. He raises shaking hands, pale and bruised blue; a reaction from the abuse of temperature. With desperation he reaches forward, moving to touch one of the charred remains sitting before him –

Remains he learns are as ice cold as the rest of his surroundings.

A hope he hadn’t known had been building within his chest breaks with that realisation, crumbling back into the pits of his despair. The fire pit could not have been put out recently, not if it is as cold as it has become.

If Oscar had the energy he’s sure he would weep at the luck he has been dealt with. His entire body is screaming at him in exhaustion, eyelids growing heavier with every move he makes. He is tired and near beaten with defeat, a feeling which continues to grow with each moment the snowdrops around him become thicker, each beat of the wind roaring louder in it's path.

Oscar is growing to suspect there is a very high probability he will meet his death in this weather. This building snowstorm is to become his downfall, and history will always remember that the great Herald of Andraste was at the end of it all lost by the chill of night.

That is if anyone were to ever find his body. He may simply just grow to be known as lost otherwise.

With one last string of fools hope clinging to him, Oscar decides he will not give in to meet his death here. He will push on, further into the endless paths of white before him, and pray that if he really is the Maker's chosen that they are watching over him with good intentions. He rises to stand once more, movements slow and jaw clenched tightly as he tries to withstand the mixture of numbness and pain. He presses a shaky hand back to his side again, clenching his fingers around the material of his top and feeling the mixture of dried blood and damp chill mix together. With another ghostly breath let out and a gust of ferocious wind blowing past Oscar places one foot forward, beginning his trek to find some sort of civilization again.

He tries to ignore the way the mark in his hand bleeds its green light, still throbbing with an odd and unusually discomforting pain.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“It’s really coming down out there now.”

Varric’s voice carries itself to where Dorian kneels next to one of their sick. He watches the person for a moment as they lower their head back upon the makeshift pillow beneath their head, having just finished attempting to eat something. Once he’s certain that they do not need his aid for the time being Dorian rises to his feet, turning to spot where Varric moves away from the entrance of the cave they’re in.

“It’s good we were able to find shelter in time,” Dorian replies, looking above him at the rugged rockery with disdain. “Although this certainly isn’t somewhere I hope we’ll be staying for too long. It’s awfully dank, and the _smell._ ”

“Relax Sparkler,” says Varric. “Commander Cullen assured everyone it was only for the night or until this blizzard passes.”

“And then where will we be?” Dorian asks with a heavy sigh. “There’s still the fact no one seems to have any idea of what happens next for us all. There could be a lot more camping out in caves yet.”

“Let’s just try to get through this one night first. That’s more important for now.”

Dorian gives in with a nod, suppressing the desire to let out another sigh. He is tired and it is fuelling his annoyance, annoyance directed not at anyone around him but simply at the situation they’re in. The exhaustion is shared by all, if the number of disagreements which have aroused in the past few hours since having to move camp is any indication. It is a result of fear and unrest; and truly, no one can blame anyone for the frustration resonating thickly throughout the air.

“Have either of the two of you seen Mother Giselle around?”

At the question Dorian looks up, meeting the faces of two people. The first is the lieutenant to the Qunari he’s seen around --  Krem, he thinks their name is. Standing beside him is another yet somewhat more unfamiliar person, yet Dorian already assumes that they’re another member of the mercenary group the Qunari is known to be leader of.

Dorian scans his eyes back to where some of their injured lay, spotting where the Chantry Mother sits beside the bed of a man with a bandage wrapped securely around his head. They are talking with one another, and Dorian expects that the wound is not one too terribly serious that an interruption would be a hinderance to the poor man's health.

“Over there,” He answers, turning back to Krem as he points a finger over his own shoulder. “She’s been looking out for the injured since we made camp, and I believe she intends to do so for the rest of the night.”

“Right, thanks,” says Krem with a quick, curt nod. He looks at the man beside him, signalling for him to follow just as Varric speaks up, halting their movements.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Bull and the rest of the chargers right now?”

“Chief knows I’m around,” Krem replies. “I’m following his orders anyway. He wants me to leave Stitches here to help out. The guys more useful helping with injuries than he is with keeping look out.”

“Well I _am_ a healer after all," the man -- Stitches -- grunts beside him. "I managed to do a well enough job tending to the wounds our Chargers carry, did I not? Luckily most of those were just flesh wounds."

"We were mostly aiding in getting civilians out of Haven when we were attacked," Krem clarifies, looking towards Varric and Dorian once more. "Flesh wounds, burns, most if not all the Chargers managed to get out fairly lightly in comparison to what others have. Which is why we're keeping watch with some of the Commanders soldiers. Stitches can help those who weren't so lucky. We heard the extra help is needed."

"It is," Dorian nods. "As many people as we have right now, it's proving rather difficult to watch over people and to make sure we have enough potions and poultices. Even Madame Vivienne has extended her aid with crafting potions."

"Good thing I'm good at those too," says Stitches. He faces Krem. "Come on then, let's speak with this Giselle woman."

"Right," Krem agrees. He offers both Dorian and Varric another appreciative nod before leaving, and Dorian and Varric watch as they make their way to the Revered Mother.

"Well, an extra pair of hands _should_ help," Varric finally says after a moment of quiet passes between the two. The optimistic lilt of his words causes Dorian to stare at him, and in answer Varric offers a shrug, letting out a small laugh. "You know I'm right Sparkler."

"Oh but of course, it's just that's probably the most positive I've heard from you since we ended up in this entire mess."

"At least people seem to be banding together more than they were earlier. If there's any good to think of right now, my bet is on that," Varric lets out a sigh, his expression falling tired and serious once more. "I should see if there's any of that stew Blackwall made around. Maybe I can convince Sera to have a bowl now too, if she's calmer."

Varric walks away, leaving Dorian alone with his own thoughts. He still does not wish to be left to think on them too deeply, knowing that they continue to bring sadness and grief in their wake, and so over to find something he can do to both help and keep his mind busy. He notices the shivering form of one of their injured, coldness attacking them even with the thin form of the sheet they have wrapped around them. With a sympathetic and heavy heart Dorian looks to their limited supply of furs and blankets, deciding to help the person out of their bitter sorrow and finding something warmer for them to cover themselves with.

"Here," Dorian says gently, kneeling next to the shivering woman. With surprise she turns her head towards him, watching him with bird like concentration as he carefully wraps the fur he found around her small frame. The woman's unsteady hands reach to gently clasp at the edges, tugging a little more to pull it further around herself. As Dorian pulls his hands away he watches as the woman appears to almost cocoon herself in the new feeling of warmth around her, burrowing herself deeper into it.

"Thank you," she answers quietly, her relief evident in the tone her words carry. Dorian offers her a light smile, watching as her eyes found his again. There is a curiosity within them, a sense of wonder, and after what appears to be a moment of her fighting to decide if she should speak her mind or keep silent, the woman speaks again. "I thought those of you from Tevinter were supposed to be uncaring and evil."

With sadness Dorian shakes his head. He is not surprised by her words, already knowing of the whispers and looks shared within the Inquisition and among Haven's civilians since he joined them. It is something he has carried with him ever since he first journeyed to the South, and having gathered a taste of the stories shared about evil Magisters and their love of corruption and power, he is no longer surprised by the stereotypical fear of those who just didn't understand or look far enough beyond spoken words.

"Not all of us are," he replies, words just a quiet as the woman's own. "Some of us just look the part. It's completely understandable that we're so convincing to outsiders."

The woman shares a small smile. "I see that more now. I never would have thought someone like you would be helping the sick like this," she pauses, letting her eyes fall down to her hands. "The Herald saw it too, before. He always seemed proud to have you in his circle of friends. Now, I understand why."

“Commander Cullen?”

Dorian stops himself from figuring out a way on how best to respond to the woman’s words at the sound of Leliana calling for the Commander. Instead his brow furrows, turning in time to see Leliana spot where the man she was looking for stood speaking with Josephine. Dorian grows concerned at the look written across her face, noticing an unusual apprehension which was not often present upon her features. From the times he had seen her Leliana always looked calm and determined, never seeming to appear defeated within her work or the orders she had to ask her spies to carry out. Now however it was quite different, and something had surely given her cause for worry.

He is not the only one to spot Leliana’s unusual strangeness. Dorian spots Cassandra as she makes her way towards the small group of advisors forming, and even Varric has decided to halt his search for food to instead figure out what it is that’s happening. After turning to the woman he had been speaking with Dorian rises to his feet once more, deciding to hesitantly make his way towards the group rather than straining to pick up on scraps of the conversation that's currently being shared.

“... Are you _certain_ Leliana? You have no doubts?” Dorian hears Cullen ask as he comes to a stop between Cassandra and Varric. Cassandra spares a glance towards him which he spots from out the corner of his eye, yet Dorian ignores it for the time being. It is not the time for talking about their due apologies.  

“My scouts do not tell lies, Commander. _Someone_ is out there,” She pauses. “Who they are or they pose any threat, that I cannot be sure of. But who else would be wandering alone in conditions such as this?”

“Are you saying you believe them to be --”

“I am saying nothing for certain, Lady Cassandra,” Leliana interrupts. Yet she exchanges a look with Cassandra that carries much more within it than any of them had held since Haven fell: growing hope. “But if you were to ask my opinion on the matter, then yes. I do believe our straggler could be more friend, than foe.”

“You can’t mean …” Varric begins. He pauses, deciding to keep his voice hushed before he continues, as if speaking aloud will break the magic of the moment. “You’re saying that it could be _the Herald?”_

Something jumps deep within Dorian’s chest, as if his heart had managed to skip a sudden beat.

The Herald.

There’s a chance they were still alive. There’s a chance that _Oscar himself_ still lived.

He wants it to be a certainty, wants to know if Oscar survives like they all wonder. But then Dorian is suddenly reminded of the ever growing snowstorm outside, and suddenly all his happiness turns to fear. If Oscar is alive and he is out there alone, how long will it be until he freezes to death?

“We should search, just incase,” Josephine says, a hint of panic hidden beneath her otherwise calmly controlled and mannered words. “If it is not then we will realise if they are friend or foe. If it _is_ him, however …”

“I agree,” Cullen replies. “Normally I would not recommend it, what with the heavy snow making things all the more dangerous in our current position. Yet if we were to send out a very small team instead we could find this person and bring them back, hopefully before the storm hits it’s peak.”

“My scouts can tell you where they last spotted them. Considering how I’ve kept my scouts fairly close in order to protect both them and the camp, whoever this person is should not be too far from where we are now.”

Cullen shares a nod in Leliana’s direction. “Alright. In that case then I will lead this team out. I’ll gather two of my soldiers to follow with me.”

“I will accompany you,” offers Cassandra almost immediately. Dorian looks at her with surprise, only to find that Cassandra is watching him as she continues. “If it is the Herald, then I shall aid in bringing him back to us. After all, it was I that decided to leave him behind at Haven. It shall be my repentance to see he is safe once more.”

A forgiveness. Dorian understands Cassandra’s meaning to be a desire to fix what she deems her greatest mistake as of late. In that moment with her watching him he remembers the words he had spoken in anger as an avalanche fell over Haven, words he had also been wishing he could take back once he had reflected upon them. Seeing that they appear to have resonated deeply with Cassandra is an odd feeling for Dorian, and he’s not sure if he’s pleased she is taking some kind of responsibility, or if he has ashamed that he had shifted the blame he felt was deserved onto her in the first place. Yet Dorian knows this is her way of burying past angers between them, and that the both of them strive to see one thing achieved: Oscar’s return.

So he gives her a silent nod in answer. _Find him._ It says. _Find him and bring him back to us all._

“Of course,” Cullen replies, accepting Cassandra’s request. “We should speak with Iron Bull also. He could aid us --”

“Not that I mean to interrupt,” Dorian begins. “But may I remind you that Bull is currently busy keeping look out with the rest of his chargers?”

“Ah, Master Pavus is indeed correct in saying that,” agrees Josephine. “It would be best to keep him involved with that for the time being, Commander. He did volunteer freely to do so, after all.”

“I’ll go instead,” Varric says. “I was with Cassandra and Dorian here when we were helping by the Herald's side in Haven after all. Let me help.”

“I can aid you too in this search,” Dorian adds, looking at Cullen with determination. Cullen however shakes his head.

“No. I appreciate the offer Dorian, but we’re low on healers as it is, and you’re one of the few around here that know how to craft a potion any of our sick and injured require. Not to mention, if we do end up finding our friend once more…” There’s a brief pause, and Cullen visibly swallows before he continues with a quiet voice. “He may promptly need medical care, what with how long he's been on his own. We need to be prepared for that, and I ask for your aid in that effect.”

A solemn silence passes over the small group, the words being those they had all been thinking yet not what any of them wished to speak. Now that they were hanging fresh in the air between them however, it meant a new sense of urgency hovered amongst them all. Dorian himself could see the logic in Cullen's words, and so did not argue against his decision. If he were to be helpful at the camp, then that is where he would stay. 

“I will take Varric and Cassandra with me on this search,” Cullen decides in the end. “We will leave as soon as we are able to do so. Until our return however, this information must be kept _quiet_. It will do us no favours if we were to raise morale with hope, only to have it knocked down once more if our assumptions are proven to be wrong. Do _not_ spread this around until we know more.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Upon seeing another fire pit, Oscar does not feel any excitement nor dread rise within him. All he knows is numbness from the growing winds and snow around him, an aching exhaustion that feels as if it pulls at every single part of his body, and increasing pain. His hair is a windswept mess, heavy snowdrops filtered all the way through it.

He reaches towards the pit, expecting to feel the same familiar coldness which he had found before. However when his fingers lightly touch the remains this time, there is warmth. Lingering and weak, yet enough of a sign to show that the fire had been put out recently.

Oscar doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. Hope does not rise in his chest, telling him that it will not be long now until he finds someone. All of those things, he realises, are what he has already given up on finding. He had given up ever since the storm began. Instead he lets out heavy, jerking breaths, ghostly air escaping his lips once more before his legs finally give way beneath him.

He falls heavily, landing on his side upon the snow. Oscar has no energy to push himself up onto his feet, no desire to even try. He finds lying there to be … peaceful, wondering to himself why it was he had been pushing so much to get somewhere, when he already knew he most likely would not reach the destination in the end. There is not a part of him which is not aching or in pain in some way, and Oscar thinks that to sleep would not be such a bad thing.

His vision begins to blur as snowdrops continue to fall. Eyelids flutter, fighting a losing battle to stay open. As his body slowly wins in its cry for rest at last, the last thing Oscar sees is the bright light of the mark from the hand outstretched before him. It is brighter than it should be, he notices, before finally fading away completely into darkness as his eyes close one final time.


	3. Chapter 3

The snow is thick and heavy as they wade their way through, each step weighing them down as if they were attached to an anchor.  Despite the effort and the struggle, the urgency itself they search with does not diminish or weaken. 

The information which Leliana shared with Cullen before leaving helps the party greatly, as it provides them with a rough indication of where the mysterious and lost, wandering figure was last spotted. It has them backtracking, heading back towards where it was they had last set out a camp in the open air. Although they were aware vaguely of where the camp in question had been located both the darkness of the night mixing itself amongst the heavy frozen plains of fog makes it difficult to really see clearly, and Cullen finds himself hoping they’re still heading in what he feels is the right direction.

As they continue to press forward through the white tundra around them, no one chooses to speak. Both Varric and Cassandra follow Cullen’s lead, eyes as watchful as a pair of hawks while they look around themselves for signs of anything which could be considered unusual or out of place. Behind them both are two of Cullen’s recruits. The recruits both have their hands resting upon the hilts of their swords warily, preparing themselves for any unsuspecting attacks. They five of them work in tandem, keeping silent as the same worries and anxieties press against their minds. They are all working with the unknown, being aware that no matter what it is they may end up discovering, their time in doing so is both precious and limited.

No one wants to consider what will happen if what they find is not what they are praying for.

Even worse is the truth that no one wants to consider what will happen if they end up finding nothing.

Instead, they keep pushing themselves to move forward, holding on to their own determinations.

 

\------ --------- ------

 

As soon as he spots it Cullen stops suddenly in his tracks. The footsteps from his comrades slow until they stop by his side.

A little ahead of them sits the burnt remains of what had once been one of their old fire pits. It is noticeable only from the mess poking out from the barrier of snow which has fallen over it, the colouring stark grey against white purity. However, that is not what has caught the Commander’s attention. His eyes are drawn instead to a large mound next to it, remaining motionless in the flurry of the storm.

To his right Cullen hears a gasp pass from Cassandra’s lips, the sound being enough to remind him of why they were out at such a time to begin with.

“Do you think …?” She begins to ask, stopping herself briefly as a scowl tightens her features. “Could it be him, Commander?”

Cassandra doesn’t have to say much more. They all understand whom it is she is referring to.

“It could be anyone,” Varric responds, his words a weak attempt at reassurance. “We’d need to get closer to really tell. They’re not looking too great, whoever they are.”

Something triggers itself within Cullen then. Disregarding the rather sudden sensation of hope plummeting it’s way down into the very depths of his stomach he springs into motion, rushing towards the fallen figure whilst the other four remain at a distance holding their own baited breaths. He calls out as he moves, hoping that his voice will be a familiar enough sound to rouse the unknown person before them from what he prays is only a slumber.

_“Herald!”_

The closer he comes towards them the clearer the situation is to him. Cullen quickly comes to notice that from beneath the bed of snow which now covers some of the persons form is the colours worn by someone familiar to him. It is a coat, made out of tough leather and as red as wine in its colouring. Upon inspection Cullen notices just how tatty and broken the coat has now become, and he knows with full certainty then that they have found the very man whom had only hours ago been presumed dead. He is looking at the body of the Herald, the person who has so far managed to defy all the number of odds which have been thrown against him. From that revelation Cullen kneels next to the man’s side, reaching a hand out to grip at his shoulder, realising immediately and with growing fear just how cold it really was.

“It’s him!”

Cullen barely registers himself turning to call back to the rest of the group, his thoughts entirely focused on Oscar and his current condition. Footsteps running towards the two of them fills his ears, however Cullen’s attention is held onto Oscar’s stillness. It worries him deeply, enough so to make him frown, and with careful hands Cullen tries to move Oscar’s limp and injured body just enough to see the man’s face.

What he ends up seeing causes Cullen’s eyes to widen at the sight, for Oscar looks nothing like himself.

He is near frozen, that is as easy to see as it is to feel. Cracked, bloodied lips have turned a worrying shade of blue in colour, contrasting against the unusual white paleness of Oscar’s usually tanned skin. A mixture of both snow and frost can be seen biting and dusting at his features, his eyebrows home to a flurry of tiny snowflakes. For a moment Cullen fears that they have arrived too late, that even the Herald of Andraste has proven unable to survive the harsh trials of Mother Nature herself. But as he reaches a shaking hand to press against a point upon Oscar’s neck, Cullen manages to pick up on the low beating of a pulse. It is far too faint and much slower than it should be, yet for now it is enough to show signs of a life being held on to and fought for. 

In a rush Cullen reaches up to the front of his own uniform, pulling at where the thick fur cloak that covers over his shoulders attaches itself to his armour and begins to remove it. Once it’s free from him he doesn’t hesitate to throw it over Oscar’s small form, hoping it may be enough to provide the man with just enough warmth until they were safely back at their campsite in the caves. With tender caution Cullen begins to move Oscar, bringing him into his arms and holding him close against his chest.

“Maker’s breath Herald, but I thought you’d be somewhat heavier than this.” Cullen says around a breath, pushing himself up on his feet so he can stand. When he turns around Cullen is met with the grim look both Varric and Cassandra wear upon their faces, expressions which soon morph into heavy concern as they catch sight of the weakened man held securely in his arms.

“Holy _shit,_ look at the poor kid,” says Varric, eyes widening. “He looks terrible.”

“Is he alive, Commander?” Cassandra asks, her concern morphing into a steel like determination suddenly. Cullen’s eyes glance from first Varric and then over to her, responding with a quick nod.

“Yes. I found a pulse, although it is very weak right now.”

Without another word in exchange between the three of them Cassandra turns to face the two soldiers who stood nearby, immediately giving them new orders to follow.

“Return to the camp right away. Let our healers know they will need to be prepared for a casualty, and then wait there for our return. If you manage to speak directly to either Madam Giselle or Lord Pavus, they will know why this calls for such urgency.”

“Yes Ma’am,” The soldier's reply, offering her a salute before hurrying back towards the caves. When Cassandra turns back to Cullen, she notices how Varric’s attention has caught onto the Herald’s limp hand which carries the mark.

“I don’t think it’s meant to glow that bright, is it?” He asks, pointing towards the covered mark.

“We can get Solas to look at if something seems wrong once we’re back at the camp,” says Cullen. “For now, we _must_ get the Herald back to safety.”

With both the heightened weather and now the weakened health of Oscar to be cautious of, Cullen prays that they aren’t too late to find some way in which they can save their protector.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Start gathering things we can use to keep him warm! Now!”

The sound of Cullen's urgent words causes Dorian to look up from where he’s been sitting upon the ground. Both Cassandra and Varric disappear from where they had previously been following after the Commander, heading in opposite directions in their haste to search for more supplies and materials which could be used on whomever it is they have rescued, most likely. Dorian closes the book he had been flicking through beforehand -- information on the numerous variations of potion making; the attempt at reading more an act of distraction than it is for him to actually take in anything it offers to him -- choosing to set it to one side of the small, makeshift bed which he had helped to set up. Soon after Dorian rushes to his feet so he can stand to one side, keeping close to where both Madame Giselle and Vivienne have now gathered themselves.

It’s when Cullen -- as well as the person he carries within his arms -- soon appears in view before them all that Dorian feels the way his own breathing slows itself down to a close standstill. His eyes grow wide, recognising the man who is currently covered over by Cullen’s fur cloak instantly. However, the sight does not offer Dorian any of the relief he hoped it would.

As Cullen carefully begins to lower Oscar down upon the makeshift bed with aid from Vivienne, Dorian catches enough of a glimpse of Oscar to tell that he is unconscious. A heavy wave of worry washes itself over him, and as Madame Giselle also steps forward to offer her aid Dorian moves into action himself. He heads towards the small space he had been sitting in before the rescue groups return, and with his own shaking hands hurries to gather up the blanket he had found along with a small selection of poultices which he had prepared earlier. They had been made more as a precautionary need rather than anything else, yet he is glad he had thought to prepare them now. Once he finds all of what he searches for Dorian returns to where people surround the Herald’s side, and as he steps nearer he stares speechlessly at the sight Oscar is in.

He looks nothing like the man Dorian knows, the man he’d since realised he could call a friend with confidence. Dorian remembers Oscar always appearing as outwardly optimistic even when inside he was just as terrified as the rest of them, remembers the way he often laughs as Dorian tells him a joke or smiles when someone within his inner circle says something he finds to be meaningful.  He remembers the way Oscar had been back during the fight at Haven, strong and determined in the face of imminent danger, selfless in facing what could have (could _still_ ) resulted in his own death. The image of the man lying on the bed now is different from all those memories Dorian holds with fondness.

This version of Oscar is pale, worryingly so. He appears almost frozen, snow covered and skin seemingly frostbitten in places, with lips cracked and bloody, blue in their colour. But as well as that Dorian can tell Oscar is also very broken and battered, and that whatever it was which had befallen him after he, Cassandra and Varric left his side has resulted in the numerous other cuts and injuries he likely carries. The hand which is not home to Oscar’s glowing mark lays against to his side, blood colouring the gloves that he always wears whilst fighting, and Dorian wonders where it is that he has been bleeding from as well as for how long.

“... where to even start. He’s lucky that you managed to get him this far, Commander.”

“We need to keep him warm, Lady Vivienne. That is imperative right now. Can you not see how his body shakes even while he rests? The Herald is still at great risk.”

Dorian is brought out of his thoughts as the words shared between Vivienne and Mother Giselle reach his ears. Understanding how important it is that they all work together now to make sure they save Oscar, he moves to the Chantry Mother’s side, holding out the poultices he carries and offering them freely for her to take.

“These should help somehow,” Says Dorian, ignoring the way Mother Giselle turns to him with a wary look in her eyes. More important matters stand for the time being rather than dealing with why it is she still does not appear to find any signs of trust within him. “I managed to find another blanket earlier too, which I can warm with magic --”

“Thank you, Lord Pavus,” Vivienne interrupts, causing Dorian to look up at her. Her own expression matches the concern shared by all, yet she at least looks genuine in her appreciation for his aid. “If you could warm it, that would be very useful, my dear.”

“We first need to find fresh clothes for the Herald,” Mother Giselle speaks up, taking the poultices from Dorian and grudgingly offering him a nod of gratitude. “He is soaked through due to the falling snow outside, and it is not aiding him in allowing himself to keep most of his body warmth.”

“I can get fresh clothes.”

At the voice all three of them turn, spotting Stitches standing nearby. Dorian watches him look towards Oscar, picking up on the way his expression falters from taking in the sight of their saviour, before he turns back to face them all again. “Boss keeps some incase any of us Chargers need them. You’d be surprised how often a change of clothes is needed when we have work to do at places as damp and cold as the Storm Coast. Luckily, most of our supplies were salvageable during our escape at Haven.”

“Good, find us some, if you would be so kind,” Says Giselle, a desperation laced within her tone. Stitches gives a nod, before rushing off once more to find what they need. Giselle starts opening one of the poultices, reaching down near where she kneels for one of the pieces of cloth she had brought over to spread the mixture over.

“These should act as some comforting aid from some of his less serious wounds for the time being. We will need to inspect his more serious injuries, however.”

As Giselle prepares the poultices, Vivienne starts removing the gloves Oscar wears. She is careful, keeping in mind to be wary of broken bones they are not yet sure he could have. Dorian notices Cullen still standing nearby, brows furrowed in deep thought as he watches the two of them start trying to help the man he’d just returned to them back to some path of good health once more. A question springs to the forefront of Dorian’s mind, one which he has been thinking about a lot in the moments which have passed since the rumours of Oscar’s possible return. It is not something he wishes to consider, yet Dorian knows he will have no peace of mind if he does not at least ask. If anything, he hopes the answer may set him somewhat more at ease.

“Will he survive, do you think?”

The question is so quiet that Dorian expects Cullen to ignore it; to pretend it was never even asked. Instead Cullen turns to stare at him, and after a moment of fighting the urge to do so, Dorian lets out a small, exhausted sigh before turning back towards the Commander. He sees then that Cullen looks about as lost as he is himself, and for some reason Dorian feels as if a heavy weight of dread falls down deep within the very pit his stomach.

Of course, Cullen is just as clueless about Oscar’s situation as the rest of them are.

“I don’t know,” Cullen answers honestly, his words unusually quiet. He seems to fumble for a moment, moving his hands awkwardly -- or perhaps it is just for something to do, to break the feeling of hopelessness which seems to be suffocating them both so suddenly. “I --” He begins before pausing, letting out a heavy sigh as he fights to continue speaking. “I believe surviving the night is going to be his hardest task. However Dorian, you should probably know --”

Another pause, and Dorian watches painfully as Cullen’s expression morphs into something akin to hurt.

“He was barely holding on when we found him out there. If we had waited any longer to carry out our search …”

Dorian does not need to hear anything more. His own frown deepens, understanding what it is that Cullen has both said and left unspoken. There is no time for relief at finding the Herald again, at least not yet. Not when there still remains such a large window of uncertainty for his survival.

For just a small moment, Dorian recalls the future he and Oscar were thrown into against their own wills. He remembers the darkness of it all, the fear and the overwhelming sensation of helplessness which had radiated from the future versions of their disillusioned comrades. He also remembers how he had not succumbed to such dark emotions himself, somehow feeling safe in the company of someone he really had only just met. Dorian lets the very real possibility of Oscar dying set into his mind for just a mere second, thinking of how lost and terrified he would feel if her were to know for certain he would be without the other man there by his side.

It is a reality he quickly discovers he cannot bear to think about. Dorian realises -- and not for the first time in these past few days --  that to not have Oscar alive, it simply hurts too much to even imagine.

The sound of a loud gasp breaks the moroseness which has befallen over himself and Cullen, and they both quickly turn their attentions in time to see Vivienne with a hand clasped over her mouth. It is unusual to have her seem so shocked at anything, and with concern both Dorian and Cullen step closer to where Oscar lays once more, looking down towards where Vivienne had just been removing the glove which was once wrapped tightly around his marked hand....

… The mark which is now staring up at them violently as it stretches its way across Oscar’s skin.

Dorian has seen Oscar’s marked hand before; has even had the privilege to inspect it more closely one evening when they were drinking in the Tavern. Of all the times he has caught sight of it, the mark has never appeared as it does now. Now it appears to be almost angry in its nature, stretching past where it normally sits and spanning across the width of Oscar’s entire palm. The green light splits off at points, creating patterns reminiscent to that of plant tendrils, some of which travel down to the base of Oscar’s wrist and intertwine themselves into his veins.

An act which no kind of magic should ever achieve or do, due to the danger it can impose on the user themselves.

“Find Solas,” Cullen urgently calls out, looking around him for someone who can search for the elf. “He can help us. It is important that we find him _right now_.”

Dorian remains standing still, staring at the bright pattern lighting up Oscar’s hand. He barely registers the moment Cullen rushes off to begin searching for Solas himself, instead finding himself lost within his own ever growing fear. A fear which seems to want to do nothing more but to speak and torment him with the very real possibility they were going to end up losing Oscar even after he had just returned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a current trend going around on tumblr where people are casting their Dragon Age OTP's with real life people.  
> Naturally, this meant I wanted to try it out for Dorian and Oscar. You can see their fancast [here](http://www.mythalsfavour.tumblr.com/post/120295954083/cast-your-otp-inquisition-edition-hrithik).

Sometimes, whenever Dorian allows himself the luxury of reflecting back upon his first meeting with Oscar, he manages to find himself still somewhat surprised by how absolutely unlike his own imaginings on what he'd be like in person the man really is.  
  
It is not the time in Redcliffe Castle, where the Herald first walked in as Dorian was beating demons down with his staff that he first realises it, oh no. It's later, during a time where Oscar is not surrounded by those who follow his command. Instead it is the time in which he and Dorian are trapped in the darker alternate timeline they had been sent to by Alexius’s amulet, alone but for the company of one another. Dorian had expected panic and fear to rule over Oscar’s emotions, for him to lose his grip on the control he held tightly to instead question Dorian endlessly, desperately searching for a certainty that they could and would return back to their own timeline. Dorian prepared himself for it, speaking the words that sat within his mind as if they had been rehearsed time and time again.  
  
 _'Don't worry. I'll protect you.'_  
  
What he did not expect was for Oscar to smile at him, to look at him as if he did not doubt his words for a moment. He did not expect relief reflecting in the Herald's eyes, nor the surety of the nod he gave Dorian before offering his own reply in return.  
  
 _'You have my trust, Dorian. But considering we don't know what we may face here yet, perhaps we should rather protect each other?'_  
  
Dorian could not have foreseen any scenario where Oscar spoke the words that he had. For he had never expected Oscar to offer words of comfort towards him. Yet at the time the words had settled deep within, already finding themselves a home somewhere in his chest.   
  
They did not cause a cage of butterflies to flutter freely within Dorian's stomach. They did not cause the earth to move beneath his own feet, nor allow the broken skies above them to suddenly clear and repair. Still, they were enough. For in that moment, whilst the two of them were trapped and alone, Oscar's words allowed Dorian to realise and believe that everything would somehow be alright in the end. As long as Oscar was beside him.  
  
Throughout his short time working within the Inquisition afterwards, Dorian has found him constantly holding onto that thought. No matter what they face, be it in a group with others or just the two of them alone, Dorian has always known that Oscar is the one who ends up making things seem okay. He has become the calm Dorian didn't know he needed before to protect him from the storms of the world, and it is only recently Dorian is beginning to see it all the more clearly.  
  
Still, the way the mark glows upon Oscars hand before them all now shakes at Dorian's core violently.

By the time Solas is finally found Oscar has managed to be dressed in the warm, dry clothes brought over by Stitches. Both Madame Giselle and Vivienne have since continued to work on healing and bandaging the various other wounds and injuries they’ve found, whilst Dorian sits on the ground by Oscar’s side once more, gently using magic to warm another blanket Varric and Cassandra have managed to scavenge from their earlier search around the few supplies within their camp.

The group waiting worriedly around the unconscious Herald looks in the direction of where hurried footsteps approach them all, soon spotting Cullen once more with the elf following close behind him. He slows to stop, causing Solas to do the same, the staff which he carries with him always lightly hitting the rocky uneven surface of the ground. His eyes scan over them all before finally landing onto the form of the Herald, widening slightly as he takes in the man’s appearance and the unusual way the mark continues to glow. Solas moves forward not long after, kneeling beside Dorian who shifts his body away somewhat so he is not in the way.

“You should have called for me as soon as he arrived,” Solas says, setting his staff down by his side before reaching forward for the Herald’s hand. Dorian glances behind him quickly towards Cullen, noticing the Commander wipe a hand tiredly across his brow.

“We were otherwise preoccupied with keeping him alive. Solas, can you determine anything as to why the mark is glowing that brightly?”

With a determined frown Solas carefully lifts Oscar’s arm, inspecting the mark. There is silence around him as he searches for answers, and from beside him Dorian watches and waits with bated breath. His heart beats a rapid tattoo within his chest, a sensation of anxiety bubbling in his stomach as he holds on, hoping that Solas will be able to tell them _something_ which promises good fortune. For they are much too well acquainted with that of the poorer kind as of late.

Solas’s hand travels from Oscar’s palm to his wrist, and with light touches he begins to appear as if he is searching for something. It is then Dorian really notices how dark some of the bruising on an area of Oscar’s arm is, and his brow furrows as he watches how Solas continues to examine it.

“It is as I thought,” Solas eventually says, returning his attention onto the glowing mark once more. “The mark is trying to adapt and to grow, yet it is unable to do so in the way it desires.”

“That is good that it is being blocked then, is it not?” asks Cassandra, who continues to stand just far enough so as not to interrupt any of them. “If the mark continues to grow in the way it is, will it not consume the Herald?”

“It certainly looks as if that’s what it’s attempting to do,” Dorian agrees, glancing at the intertwining of the marks light and Oscar’s veins. He nods towards it, fighting against the way his voice begins to waver and shake slightly. “No magic should do that. The first thing a mage is taught as soon as they come into their powers is that any magic which acts as if it were a parasite is _wrong_. It is not something one should attempt to play with.”

“Which is true. However, its aim is not to consume.”

Dorian stares at Solas in bewilderment, watching him as the elf turns back towards the hand once more.

“Something within the mark itself has changed,” He begins to explain. “I do not know what that is, yet I believe if anyone were to have an answer it would be our Herald. It is trying to accommodate for that, to work alongside it, yet it is finding obstacles in it’s path. Here --”

Solas gestures to the darkened bruise upon Oscar’s arm, pointing a finger around the area it covers.

“The Herald’s arm is badly fractured and will need to be wrapped within a secure cast. The mark is working between two jobs; the first being to evolve. The second, to protect both itself and its user. This --” Solas’s finger moves from the bruise, up towards Oscar’s veins “is due to it being angered. The mark wishes to aid in the healing process of the fracture, but it can’t. That is why we see this.”

“Is there anything you can do about it?” Varric asks, taking a small step forward. Solas gives another nod in response.

“There is,” Says Solas. Hope fills Dorian, his eyes fixed on Solas as he reaches for Oscar’s hand with both of his, encasing it between the two.

A blue light brightens up where Solas’s hands join Oscar’s, and those surrounding the two of them watch as the elf works. Dorian finds himself entranced, the magic being one which is unknown to him, and he wonders what it is that it does. It is not something he has ever seen anyone use either back in his homeland or during his travels throughout the south, yet he expects if he were to ask Solas about it, he would simply say it was of elven origin. It is the usual answer he receives whenever curious about Solas’s abilities.

For now though, he finds it does not matter. If it works in aiding the Herald, Dorian does not care where its origins stem from.

Patiently they wait, watching as the blue light of Solas’s magic continues to be absorbed through the mark on Oscar’s hand. Ever so slightly Dorian notices how the green from the mark begins to break somewhat, the tendrils receding back away from the veins in Oscar’s wrist. As it does Solas starts to stop using his magic, carefully moving his hand away and revealing the mark once more. It is still rather angry and unlike its usual appearance, yet there is a significant difference in the viciousness of its glowing. It’s a small relief to see, at least.

“That should help,” Solas eventually says, breaking the silence which has since fallen over them all. He sits back, staring down first at the mark and then up at the image of the resting Herald himself. “I have used my magic to help relieve some of the irritation and stress caused upon the mark. The case of Herald’s fracture must still be seen to, as I cannot mend such injuries as easily myself. I believe however that once it is seen to, the mark upon his hand will continue to return back to its natural state.”

“Or whatever its natural state now is. Did you not just tell us all that the mark is adapting somehow?” asks Dorian. Solas gives another nod.

“You are right. Its natural state will most likely be a new one, although from the little I understand from my own observations, it will pose no harm to the Herald himself.”

“ _‘From the little you understand’_. That’s _really_ doing well at setting all our minds at ease.”

“Thank you, Solas,” Says Cullen, speaking before anyone can respond to Dorian’s cutting retort. Dorian has nothing more to say anyway, instead returning his concern back towards Oscar. Cullen’s next words are a little louder as he speaks to the group as a whole, as if to make sure that those around him hear what it is he has to say. “If the Herald is to pull through however, his biggest obstacle still remains before him. We must make sure he survives the night.”

The sound of Cullen’s footsteps can be heard as they move against the uneven ground, and before long Dorian feels the weight of a heavy, secure grip rest upon his shoulder. He looks behind him, realising that Cullen now stands close, looking at him with an expression that can only be described as that of absolute trust. It is not an expression Dorian is used to receiving all that often.

“Dorian. Do you think you’d be able to watch over his condition for the night?”

“ _Commander,_ ” Mother Giselle speaks up, a look of a disagreement apparent upon her face. Dorian silently raises an eyebrow, waiting to hear what she has to say against Cullen’s request. “Surely it would be more convenient to have either Lady Vivienne or myself by the young man’s side. After all, we both have a wider understanding in the healing arts than Lord Pavus does himself --”

“A talent which needs to be shared across many of our people right now, Revered Mother,” Cullen interrupts. “Dorian is more than capable to watch over the Herald. He has been doing a fine job aiding in the recovery of some our injured to the best of his abilities so far, and I trust him enough to know he would not hesitate to call for aid from either yourself or Lady Vivienne if anything seemed out of the ordinary with his condition. What's more he is a good friend to our Herald, and should he wake at any point during the night, a familiar face would probably be the most welcoming for him.”

To hear such words of respect from Cullen is not what Dorian expected, yet he holds back the surprise he feels from hearing them. What he says makes sense to Dorian’s own ears, and he can’t help but to agree. They are limited enough in their healers, no matter how important the Herald is, and Dorian knows that Oscar would not be content to learn that his own well being had been put above someone else’s, especially not if it were simply just to watch over him and make sure he continues to show signs of improvement. Besides the Revered Mother no one else seems to question Cullen’s decision, and so Dorian sits up a little straighter, offering a nod of acceptance for the Commander’s request.

“I can watch over him,” Dorian answers, turning towards Cullen with a look of determination. He _wants_ to watch over Oscar, and not because Giselle seems to be against the idea completely. He wants to do it because he knows he would worry over his condition throughout the night anyway, that he would not be able to sleep easily before he knows for certain that Oscar will survive.

“Mother Giselle and I will finish seeing to his injuries before returning to watch over the others who require our attention,” Vivienne says. “It should not take much longer my dear, and we will be sure to see that the fracture in his arm is given the proper attention and treatment it requires also.”

“Good,” says Cullen. He scratches at a spot at the back of his head, attention turning towards where Cassandra remains standing next to Varric’s side. “Cassandra, we should speak with both Leliana and Josephine. They will wish to be informed of the Herald’s condition and of our plans.”

“Of course, Commander,” answers Cassandra offering a small nod along with her words.

“If anything changes --” Cullen continues, pointing a gloved finger between Vivienne, Giselle and Dorian. “-- You are to report to me immediately. I will not be far.”

The group begins to split off into its separate ways, with Solas pushing himself up to stand once more and Varric silently making his way towards Dorian. Dorian on the other hand settles beside Oscar, making himself a little bit more comfortable now that he knows he will be there all night. Each time he glances at Oscar’s face he cannot help but to feel his worry grow once more, noticing how the man is still much too pale despite the layers and warmth he has now been covered in, and how even beneath those layers his body still continues to silently shiver.

“If the mark should change its state in any way," Dorian hears Solas begin to say, pulling him out of his observations. He turns to face where it is the elf hovers close to his side. “Do not hesitate to let me know. I will be willing to look at it again and see if there is anything more I can do that can aid him.”

Dorian doesn’t have it in himself to argue or throw a sarcastic retort back, and so instead settles for responding by giving Solas a silent nod of understanding. Solas seems to understand and accept the message, as he then turns to walk away. Varric however continues to stand in his spot, exchanging a look of concern between both Dorian and towards where Oscar rests beside him.

“He's strong, Sparkler,” Varric finally says. Dorian continues to remain silent. “If anyone can pull through this, it’s him. He’s made it this far after all.”

“He has,” Dorian says, allowing a weak breath to escape from his lips. He rests his head against the back of the rocky wall behind him, letting out a heavy sigh.

He has never been much of a patient man at any point in his life. Waiting for someone he cares about not to die on him, however? That’s a waiting period Dorian knows is going to be excruciatingly frustrating to go through. Yet it is something he would utterly refuse to back down from all the same. That much he knows to be true. **  
  
  
**

* * *

  
  
Rather quickly, Dorian finds he does not really know what it is he can do in terms of aiding Oscar further.

He stays by his side, allowing Vivienne and Mother Giselle to return to offering their healing talents to the rest of their injured once more after they have done what they can for the Herald. Dorian manages to help stop Oscar from shivering as he continues to rest, which is a small relief at the very least given the circumstances of things. Other than what has already been done however there is not much more help he can offer him, and so the game of waiting begins.

It is as difficult as Dorian expects it to be.

Time seems to move forward at a torturous snail like pace, and he is constantly turning to look upon the man who rests nearby incase he catches any startling changes. Oscar's body does not shift or adjust at all, remaining in the same position as he has done since Cullen first lowered him down upon the makeshift bed. The slow rise and fall of his chest is the only movement from him Dorian notices, and each time he does it is a reminder that Oscar has returned, as well as a blessing that so far he is still alive.

For a short while Dorian attempts to return his focus to his previous reading, yet finds he cannot concentrate. The words on the page before him could be written in such a way that they fail to make any form of sense, but Dorian would still be none the wiser either way. For his mind is clouded, unease and fear grasping their strong and powerful holds on him and pushing out all else that attempts to distract or comfort him. He can only focus on Oscar, and the hope he foolishly clings to that he'll make it through to the next morning.

Dorian eventually lets out a sigh, finally giving up on his failed reading attempt. He sets the book down to one side, forgetting about it for the time being and instead casting his eyes back over to Oscar's still unmoving form. Dorian feels a familiar lump begin to form within his throat as he once again takes in the sight beside him, fighting with his emotions as he continues to try and keep a tight hold on them. His eyes dart down to where the hand which is unmarked by the mark rests over Oscar’s stomach, and after a long, thoughtful moment Dorian hesitantly decides to reach for it with his own. His hand shakes as it slowly starts moving, and although Dorian reasons to himself that it is probably due to the overwhelming worry still felt for Oscar, he can't ignore the way a voice at the back of his mind begins to question if it is not due to something much more. Something which carries a far greater weight along with it. Dorian tries not to pay too much attention to such taunts which attempt to play him like a fiddle, at least for the time being.

As his hand wraps around Oscar’s, Dorian picks up on how he still feels cold. Not as much as he had been -- which is a good thing -- but still enough for it to be an unusual sensation. Whenever their hands have briefly brushed against each other in the past Dorian has always picked up on the fact that Oscar seems to radiate heat, enough so that it has always managed to send an unexplainable shiver down Dorian’s back.

Being so close to Oscar now however makes it easier for Dorian to see every mark and cut littered across his face. Every patch of red bitten skin from the frost of the snow, the last few snowflakes that still cling themselves within his tousled hair and across his eyebrows. He feels helpless yet again noticing it all, yet before he can really put much thought into it, Dorian hears himself begin to speak.

“Look at you. I’m certain that if you were able to catch sight of yourself right now, you’d be just as distressed about your current appearance as the rest of us are.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, yet with no usual smile from Oscar to show his understanding, Dorian finds it very hard to either smile or laugh himself. Instead that lump from earlier returns at the back of his throat, and he again attempts to push past its weight, to continue to push on with his words.

“Oh, but we’re all a bit of a mess here right now, so I guess you can be forgiven. Just this once, seeing as you _have_ managed to come back when we all assumed you were dead,” Dorian’s thumb runs over the line of one of Oscar’s eyebrows, removing the flecks of snowflakes that remain staring back at him. “Very good trick of yours that was, by the way. Letting us all mourn as we felt we’d lost you, allowing Sera to close in on herself out of fear. The girl’s not left the little cocoon she’s made for herself since we camped in this blasted cave, and I feel I should warn you to be prepared that she’ll say it’s all your fault later. You know how she’s like.

“Cassandra and I have been at odds about you, if you’d care to know. Granted, I may have said a few rather hurtful things her way … but at the time they felt justified. Now however … well. I admit I owe her a proper apology. A chance to own up for my own mistakes as it were. I know if I don’t do it myself you’ll just keep telling me I should do so when you eventually wake up.”

He moves his thumb away, watching Oscar for any signs of him stirring.

Nothing changes.

The silence which he's met with feels almost choking to Dorian, and as the lump in his throat grows even harder to ignore all sense of humour attempted to lighten the situation fades. Instead Dorian now turns serious, almost desperate with his honesty; with his desire to be able to get through to Oscar somehow. The foolish hope he holds where the man still unconscious beside him might be able to hear his words from wherever it is his slumber has stolen him away to.

"Please _do_ wake up. This whole Inquisition business would be awfully dull without you," Dorian pauses, letting out a shuddering sigh. "You are both the best and only friend I have, Oscar. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that, have I? Probably not. Just - don't leave me alone now. Don't leave any of us now, not when you're still so desperately needed by us all. You've proven before that you can be an exception to most others. You've worked the impossible; when you first stepped out of the fade back at that Conclave. Do it again now. Give us one more miracle. Pull it out from beneath your sleeve, and live through this night. Live through all of this and come out from it _stronger._ That is all I ask of you."

When he stops speaking, Dorian is met with the growing familiarity of silence between the both of them again.

Despite his plea, Oscar remains as still as before. **  
  
  
**

* * *

  
  
Throughout the rest of the night Dorian finds himself dozing on and off whilst he watches over Oscar's condition. The weariness of all he has had to go through over the past few days pulls at him, and despite his own desires not to fall under the spell of slumber, his eyes fall victim to the heaviness they carry.

It is only when he finds himself waking for the third time that he notices the unfamiliar form which sits across from him.

The figure startles him at first, and Dorian finds himself fully awake the moment he begins to wonder if he is perhaps seeing things. For the figure -- person? They appear to be a person, at least -- seems unfazed by his own surprise, their face hidden from view by the rather large and tatty hat that rests atop of their head. They sit cross-legged to the other side of Oscar, and Dorian can't help but wonder how it is they could have got there without anyone else in the camp noticing.

Before Dorian can say or ask anything himself, the person breaks the quietness which surrounds them to speak.

"He will make it."

Confused, Dorian continues to watch the person with a growing frown. They look up at him then, showing their shadowed face, and Dorian notices that the person before him appears to be a boy.  His face is gaunt and incredibly pale even from the little Dorian can tell, a mess of sandy blonde hair peeking its way out from under their large hat. It’s an appearance Dorian feels he would recall spotting around the camp, yet he holds no recollection of having ever seen him before.

“Who are you?” Dorian asks. He wonders once again if perhaps he really is seeing things -- a vision conjured up by his sleep infused mind -- when suddenly he is struck by an odd sense of familiarity towards the boy.

He _has_ seen him before. Only once.

He’d somehow forgotten about it until just then, and Dorian wonders how exactly that’s possible. For the scene he remembers had been so odd and strange it had left him bewildered then too.

“Wait a moment,” He begins, his frown deepening even more. “Weren’t you with Chancellor Roderick before? I’m sure it was you I saw. You sat there, right by his side as he eventually passed away. You didn’t leave him for a moment, instead staying throughout his final moments. How is it I was able to forget something as large as that?”

The boy doesn’t answer, choosing to ignore Dorian’s collection of curious questions. A knot tightens within Dorian’s stomach, and for a second he worries that perhaps he’s come face to face with an evil spirit whose aim is to take Oscar away from them all, for good this time. The feeling fades quickly however, as the more Dorian watches the curious person sitting across from him, the more he senses that whoever they are they appear to carry no hostility about them. If anything, they seem … intrigued, in a way.

Intrigued, and something else.

Sympathetic?

“You worry for him.” The strange boy begins to say. “Your friends do too, but the claws of fear are digging themselves deeper within you. Clinging, as you desperately hope for their wills not to come true. You are scared he will end up leaving again, that you won’t get to see him anymore. The very thought itself … it hurts you to consider.”

Dorian feels as if his heart freezes. It is too much. The words are too much of the truth he tries to hide from himself, the things he tries not to allow his thoughts to submerge him in, knowing that if he were to fall from them it would be terribly difficult to rise back up again. He grows defensive, wanting to try and shut the boy out somehow, whilst wondering how it is he has managed to dig such deep and hidden secrets out of him so very easily.

“How are you so sure that he’ll survive?” Dorian asks. The boy turns to look towards Oscar’s resting form, tilting his head to one side in a way that could almost be contemplative.

“He is difficult to read … the mark on his hand stops me from understanding fully. But at the moment … I can see enough,” A pause for a second of thought, and then the boy is continuing. “He carries a fighting spirit. He is exhausted, but not finished. His time in this world has not yet come to its end. Determination. Strength. He feels there is much remaining that he both needs and wishes to do. To accomplish.”

The boy lifts his gaze from Oscar towards Dorian, a look of compassion apparent now upon his face.

“He will live. For his duty. And for those closest to him. He only needs time to rest his body.”

Although he still knows little about the boy -- spirit, Dorian considers once more. If his readings upon both Oscar and himself are accurate, the boy could still be some kind of spirit. Just not one who wishes to steal from them, but to help? Were that even a possibility? --  his words leave Dorian with a strange feeling of comfort settling within him. A reassurance.

It’s what he knows he most needs to both hear and to feel right now. Something that speaks differently than all the negative ‘what ifs’ that float around his thoughts. Because of that, Dorian decides to accept and hold on to them.

If his grip on them is a little too tight, well. He’s being hopeful, something that has never come all that easy for him.

For Oscar, though? He will hope.   
  
Oh, he will hope.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slight delay in getting this chapter posted. I ran into a lot of problems whilst writing, and hitting a bit of a rut did nothing to help. So I'm a little bit nervous about this chapter because of that. I think I've thankfully kicked the rut I was in away somehow now, and hopefully things will flow through my mind a bit easier once again.  
> On a lighter note, for anyone who may be interested [here](http://mythalsfavour.tumblr.com/post/122791558333) is a picture of a happy smiling Oscar.

“Well look. If it isn’t our resident Vint himself.”

Dorian chooses to ignore the comment as he walks outside following morning. The snowstorm from the previous night has since ended, leaving only more layers of pure white snow in its place. High above them all the sun is bright, the picture of the world around them much different from how bleak and grey it had appeared only a day or so before. It is a small wonder how much a change in the weather can alter how a person can feel, yet Dorian is clever enough to understand that a larger part of his lighter mood is due to how a new, albeit small sense of relief flowing throughout his body.

It is with that same feeling of relief that he does not respond in the manner he usually would to Bull’s words. Instead Dorian slows to stop before the Qunari, his attention meanwhile diverted to looking around at where various people from the within the Inquisition's forces work to pitch up tents. Bull himself appears to be occupied with aiding them in their efforts by clearing heavy crates and sacks away and setting them by those tents which are already standing, although with Dorian’s approach he pauses in what it is he has been doing to turn and face him.

“What is everyone doing right now?” Dorian asks, once again glancing at the people around them both, crossing his arms over his chest as his steps come to a stop.

“You mean with all the tents?” answers Bull, pointing over his own shoulder without looking back. His hand lowers to his side again once he sees Dorian nod. “The Inquisition’s advisors thought it would be a good idea now that the snowstorms over to set up a proper camp outside those caves we all stayed in last night. Lady Josephine mentioned something about it being more comfortable for most of the people, while Commander Cullen went on about how it’s somehow more practical…”

Dorian’s brow creases into a frown, indicating the confusion over what he considers a rather strange decision.

“I thought the idea was for us to find somewhere more permanent for the Inquisition to rebuild itself after what happened. Why in Makers name are we staying here for _longer?"_  

“You wonder why it is I tell you you’ve been privileged to live in luxury back in that place you call a home of yours,” Bull grunts, choosing to shrug and turn back to the number of fully filled sacks sitting nearby. “There are too many sick and injured right now who need more rest before we start walking around blindly. Not to mention the advisors aren’t even sure about what supplies were managed to be saved during the escape. Besides, it’s not like the Inquisitions all of sudden stopped looking for places we could use in the nearby area. That spymaster still has her spies keeping their eyes peeled for anything useful, and my chargers are ready to scout out should the time call for assistance.”

“I’ll kindly ignore how it is you've managed to make yet _another_ assumption about my own personal life before I came to help here in the South, yet I must say that I fail to understand how us staying out here in the blasted cold for longer than required makes any sort of sense. Surely that’s the opposite of what the sick and injured need, especially with this Maker forsaken snow. They need some place they can keep warm, that they can be provided with substantial food --"

“Look, I’m not saying that’s not what they need, alright. If you happen to be in the know of anywhere in the area we can go or use as a base of operations, then I’d tell you to let the advisors know.” Bull pauses, heaving what looks to Dorian like a heavy sack over his shoulder with minimal struggle. An impressive feat, and one which must have been accomplished with the aid of Bull's additional strength as a seasoned warrior. “Think about it Vint, we’re not exactly full on our options right now. And as well as the Herald himself, there’s plenty among our numbers who just wouldn’t be able to handle aimlessly wandering around with the conditions they’re currently in. If rest and some kind of comfort is what we can provide them with, then that’s what we give them.” 

“You mentioned the Herald. I assume that means you’ve heard about his return by now then?” says Dorian, pushing aside the familiar urge he feels to correct Bull on the uninventive name he continues to call him by. There’s a hint of curiosity hidden beneath the tone of his words, as Dorian has been unaware of just how far the gossip and news of the miraculous rescue of Oscar has managed to spread. It’s only until now he realises it must have reached far enough, if Bull has knowledge of it.

“What, you think my own Chargers wouldn’t tell me about how the Herald manages to return from the dead at the very last moment? No chance.” Bull pauses again, his expression turning contemplative for a moment, until he decides to voice what his thoughts are saying. “How is boss doing, anyway? Stitches said he had it on good authority that you were supposed to watch over him, for whatever reason it was felt that was even a good idea in the first place.”

Dorian would have bristled, had it not been for the concern he could tell Bull’s words were carrying with them. Although he may not see himself ever being on good terms with the Qunari it was a well known fact Oscar considered him to be valuable member of the Inner Circle he’d managed to gather under the Inquisition’s banner; and Bull carried a certain amount of respect towards him in return. In fact if any of those who knew the Herald well didn’t already do so before, they all certainly respected Oscar now after all he’d done to ensure the safety and survival of so many people.

“He is alive,” Dorian replies. Hearing the words leave his lips again sends another sensation of relief through his body once more, recalling how alike a nightmare the previous night had been knowing there was a heavy chance Oscar could have died at any given time. “He still hasn’t woken, but with the state he was in when he was found it’s understandable. The healers all believe he will recover given a little bit of time, which is all that truly matters. Sister Leliana remained by his side as I left earlier.”

Bull nods at what he hears, and even Dorian is able to pick up on how the words settle him somewhat. A tension he hadn’t noticed before relaxes itself from where it had weighed itself upon the Qunari’s shoulders, now making Bull appear more at ease. Dorian considers the apparent relief from Bull to be one of those rather rare and unusual things they both have in common.

"That's damn good to hear," says Bull. "I always knew boss was tough, and his knack for survival just about proves it. It's about damn time he was offered a break from all the scrapes with death he’s had lately though, if you ask me. Herald of Andraste or not, he’s still only human."

Dorian doesn't really know what he can say in response at first, yet quickly finds he doesn't have to. Bull begins to move again, heading towards one of the newly pitched tents nearby, the heavy sack still draped over his shoulder. He continues to speak as he walks, and Dorian follows after him.

"It's lucky he was found in time. From what I heard, any moment longer and he would have been nothing but a frozen corpse buried beneath the snow."

"If you had seen the state he was in when first brought in, you would have thought that’s exactly what he was, trust me."

Dorian's brow creases at the vivid memory of how unusually pale Oscar had appeared, almost as if he were more alike to that of a creature belonging to the snow rather than an actual person. The image is still too fresh and heavy in his mind, and Dorian expects it’ll be one which he won’t manage to shake away easily. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if it continued to haunt him and play on his thoughts for some time yet.

In an attempt to push his attention away and onto something else, Dorian begins to trace his gaze over the rest of those working to pitch up a few new tents, searching for the familiar image of one person in particular. It is a marvel to see so many people working together in aid away from medical treatment, however Dorian finds that with so many faces around it is difficult to spot who it is he is looking for. He gives in to a small sigh, deciding he has no other option but to ask Bull about their whereabouts instead.

"Is Blackwall around, do you know? I didn’t see him when I was getting some food earlier this morning."

“Planning to pester our Grey Warden now, are you?” Bull asks in reply, having lowered the sack by the side of a tent and rising to his feet so he can stand upright once again.

“Pestering would require my company not being at all pleasant, which is simply just not true,” Answers Dorian. He uncrosses his arms, instead moving to set both of his hands on his hips. “I am in need of a few supplies to repair a staff, and I recall Blackwall mentioning that he and a few others managed to gather some quickly before our escape. It’ll be much less bother if I were to simply work on the repairs myself once I have what I require, given the current situation of things.”

“That’s if he even has any of the supplies you’re looking for.” Despite his response Bull gestures his head towards an area behind him. “He was helping somewhere in the camp around there with Sera when I last saw him. Be a good place to start checking.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says, offering Bull a short nod.

He does not linger any longer afterwards, and instead starts to make his way towards the direction Bull had directed him in. As he moves Dorian considers what it is he’ll be in need of, recalling to his mind the current state of one rather battered and broken golden staff. A staff which so far Dorian has felt no desire to remove from the tired old bag it currently sits in, yet now finds could be in need of some care before it is returned once more to its rightful owner.  
  
  


* * *

 __  
  
The pressure of heat feels as if it closes in on him from all sides. It is incredible, overpowering in its wake and strength, but there is no time allowed to give in to the sensations of both fear and ever growing claustrophobia grasping from within.

_Instead, Oscar stands bold and determined in front of the looming threat before him. He could have been surrounded by more red templars -- or worse; demons of despair, terror and desire -- and yet he would not know. For where the wall of fire around him breaks an archdemons body curls, guarding any chance of escape from behind him as it lingers and waits. He can feel its eyes drawn on him from the prickling at the back of his sweating neck, intense and calculating. All the macabre-like creature needs is for Oscar to make one slow, wrong move; for a simple order to be called from what Oscar gathers is its master…_

_… A master whose appearance is just as grotesque and warped as those of the red templar knights Oscar had endlessly been fighting his way through only moments before the archdemon had him trapped._

_Any sense of humanity the thing -- for that is all Oscar can call it, from what he sees as they stand present before him -- once held has long since been stripped away; instead leaving a shell of what once was infused with what appears to be both a mixture of something oddly darkspawn and the harsh, violent light of red lyrium._

_The thing speaks, lifting one of its largely thin and alien hands, revealing an odd ball-like orb resting in its palm. Strange and mysterious red magic -- be it from the lyrium or the things own power -- surrounds it, seeming to charge the orb with whatever power it flows into it. Before Oscar can even think about what the strange magic might be or what it might mean there is a sudden shooting pain from the mark embedded within his own hand as green light breaks from it; and with a cry of blinding pain he falls to his knees, cradling his hand to his chest as it glows more vibrantly than he ever remembers. The sensation strums through his arm like a second heartbeat, throbbing with its rhythm._

_It is a pain he has never known when closing rifts or the tear in the sky above them. This time it is searing, feeling hotter than the flames and stemming deeper._

_With a sudden and unprepared action Oscar is snatched up from his now crumpled position, lifted high into the air as if he were nothing more but a simple rag doll. One of the things large, claw like hand digs tightly into his arm, and as Oscar forces himself to come face to face with the monstrous thing he feels those long skeletal fingers tighten, gripping him much too tightly while his legs continue to swing helplessly above the ground. He grits his teeth hard under the strain and resists the urge to scream in his agony, only barely registering what it is he is being told. Soon he is thrown across the way as if weighing nothing, hitting the hard support of a trebuchet and falling into a heap upon the snow covered ground._

_Oscar tries to push himself up with the hand that is still good as the thing approaches, finding himself falling back down under the strain he feels pull against his body. His vision has become dark and shaky, breathing now panicked and heavy with every long and agonising second that passes, mind growing ever more clouded and confused. He begins to forget what it is he is supposed to do, what he needs to do in order to survive, instead wondering why it is he feels so very tired._

_Is it over yet, he wonders?_

_An angered cry fills his ears, followed by words._

_“The anchor has made its hold upon you permanent, despite how incomprehensible the meaning of its creation would be to such a imprudent child. You have spoilt it with your foolish stumbling. For that, you must now die.”_

_Oscar blinks quickly a few times, trying to refocus his vision. A blood curdling roar rips through the atmosphere around them, and the ground starts to tremble as the demonic archdemon begins to charge towards where he lays._

_Everything I’ve worked for. Whatever the Divine died for. Is this where it all ends?_

_Was this ever about war?_

_Were we destined to fall from the very start?_

_As he considers the inevitability of every question rushing through his mind along with his now impending death, words spoken earlier peak their way to the forefront of his mind. Words that do very little to offer any comfort in what Oscar now is certain are to be his final moments within this world._

_“Beg that I should succeed in this endeavour, thief. For I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was_ empty.”

 

\------ --------- ------

 

 Oscar opens his eyes.

His heart hammers deep within his chest, beating fast. Eyes scan above him at what he soon comes to realise is the cover to a tent, and he frowns in his bewilderment. He feels disorientated, unable to understand where it is he is or how he even came to be there to begin with. It’s a worrying sensation to wake to, especially with how his dream had felt so real and terrifying, and Oscar wishes for the fog which fills his mind in a cloudy haze to clear itself so that he can make sense of what is around him.

“You’re awake.”

The voice alarms him. It is familiar, yet Oscar can’t put an answer on to why. Carefully, he turns his head towards its direction, a frown resting deep upon his brow. It is only when he sees who the person is that he realises why their voice is so recognisable.

Sitting by his side is Vivienne, looking somewhat surprised. It takes Oscar a moment to think about why, before he remembers:

Blistering cold winds. Hope dimming within him at every turn and stumble he took to find help. The pain, the numbness which had encroached on him the longer he blindly searched in the ever growing storm.

The absolute surety he held that he would die by that final fire pit. That he had finally run out of his use on luck.

Oscar had truly never expected he would wake again. He certainly never expected he would wake within the hands of the Inquisition again, assuming that either he had been too late in attempting to save them or that they had already moved on to a safer location. And yet here he was; looking into the face of one of the very people who he had been buying the time for to run.

He attempts to sit up, very quickly understanding why it is he was lying down to begin with. Aches are felt from his injuries as they make their presence known, causing him to hiss and close his eyes tightly in pain as a set of hands press against his shoulders and gently push him backwards again, his body telling him that it is exhausted.

“Dont try to move for now, my dear. Just rest, take things slowly.”

Oscar follows what he is told, letting the hands guide him to rest back upon the cot once more. As his head hits the small, tired shape of the pillow placed below his head he opens his eyes again, picking up on the concern that Vivienne is looking down at him with. He attempts to swallow, quickly discovering that his mouth feels dry, as do his lips.

“Water.”

Without asking for more from the request Vivienne nods, moving away for a second to reach for a small cup left by his side. Carefully she holds it up to his lips, helping Oscar as he moves his head so it is easier to drink from. The liquid feels like heaven as it passes his lips and down his throat, and Oscar feels like a man who has finally been reacquainted with an old friend after scouring months in a desert land. He feels a little bit more alive, not to mention a little bit more human once he is done.

Vivienne takes the cup away, setting it back down where it had sat before incase Oscar asks for it later. When she turns back to him Oscar is blinking his eyes, still attempting to wrap his mind around how it is he is even alive. The haze still lingers, yet he finds he has enough sense to understand that what he is facing is reality.

“How do you feel?” Vivienne asks, and oh, if that isn’t the question of all questions to start with to ask. Oscar doesn’t even know where to _begin_ with replying to that, breathing out an attempt at a chuckle despite the pressure pushing down upon his chest.

“Impossible to answer,” He replies, voice sounding harsh still with its disuse. The corner of his lip twitches into a half smile, and slowly Oscar turns his head to face Vivienne better. “I’d like to say I feel like if I’ve been hit by a giant and then thrown about some more, but I’m not sure even that would cover it all.”

"With whatever it was you had been through before we found you, no. I don't think it would either."

"I hurt, if that means something in terms of an answer," says Oscar, leaning his head back against the pillow. "If anything, it's helping to reassure me that this is all real. Which I'll admit I'm rather grateful for."

"You were very lucky to be found," Vivienne says. "As are we to have you brought back to us. Any longer and you may not have survived."

"Now there's a comforting thought," replies Oscar, letting out a small sigh. He thinks about how he must have really been in bad shape, if Vivienne is able to bluntly comment on his luck. He knows he's lucky though, having already expected all his cards to have been played already. Still, he can't help but to feed the curiosity he carries. "How bad was the damage?"

"You were rather badly injured," Vivienne answers. "I shan't go into the details now for I expect you are still tired, but you had many of us worried. I will advise you to take care of your arm, however. It is still fractured, and requires time to recover properly. I’m afraid there is little we could do for it given the way things are for us right now."

"Ah. That explains why it's aching as much as it is."

With his good arm Oscar massages his forehead, attempting to relieve some of the tension and tiredness which continues to build there. He shuts his eyes again, letting out a deep breath as he tries to fight exhaustion. If he were thinking a little more clearer, Oscar would likely laugh about the absurdity of how he still manages to crave sleep despite having been doing so for whoever knew how long.

"Would you like to take another drink, dear?"

Opening one eye Oscar peers over towards Vivienne, spotting how she holds the cup from before in her hand again. He lets his hand fall and, without speaking, gives a small nod in reply.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Despite his annoyance and irritation at having his aid pushed aside thanks to Mother Giselle's instance, Dorian soon comes to see it as a hidden blessing in disguise.

He is still irked by what happened, despite having grown more and more aware of the Revered Mother's apparent dislike towards him. After all, he had simply been trying to comfort one of their injured by warming their blanket for them with his magic, and Dorian can hardly see how it came to be that he was in the way of whatever it was Giselle needed to do herself for them. Yet if it weren’t for her desire to have him out of the way Dorian would not have wandered around the small area of their campsite which had been designated towards healing and watching over the sick, and he certainly may not have realised that Oscar was very much awake and speaking with Vivienne.

He suddenly stops his wandering then, watching from nearby the picture happening before him between the two. Oscar looks tired even with having slept for a couple of days, though when he notices Dorian his expression appears to brighten. His eyes still seem too heavy to keep open and his face is littered with little cuts and spots of redness from the frost which had clung to his skin like leeches, but Dorian’s attention is pulled towards the way his lips are curled upwards into a smile. A smile which causes Dorian’s breath to catch at the back at his throat. It is something that is such a natural part to Oscar, something which Dorian has seen often over the course of the two of them getting to know one another better, yet something which he also thought he would not see again. To see Oscar smiling now -- and at _him,_ of all people -- it reminds Dorian too much of what sort of person it is they had almost lost.

“Dorian.”

The sound of his name makes something within his head click into place, causing him to walk the final distance between him and Oscar and kneel down beside his cot. Vivienne watches as he moves yet says nothing, while a small smile of his own appears at hearing the sound of Oscar speaking to him.

“You’re finally awake then,” says Dorian once he manages to find his voice -- and Maker, why is he having trouble finding it in the first place? “Good to know. We were beginning to wonder just how long you intended to have us deal with all the work of cleaning things up around here.”

An attempt at humour, and one which Oscar seems to understand if the look he gives Dorian is any indication to go by.

“My apologies for not waking sooner,” He replies. The amusement which shines in his eyes disappears, and Dorian watches as Oscar’s brow furrows. As he speaks, his words sound heavy; exhausted. “Are you alright? You … Varric, Cassandra. … You all made it out okay? You weren’t hurt? While escaping Haven, I mean.”

 _Oh, you incredible idiot_ Dorian thinks to himself, replying to the question with a slow nod of his head. If there was anything, anything at all he could have expected Oscar to ask when he first awoke, it would not have been in regards to the well being of those whom had chosen to follow him into what could have easily become the pathway to their graves.

“We are all fine, I promise you that,” Dorian answers, leaning forward slightly to push Oscar’s hair back from his forehead. “You on the other hand are not in quite the same shape. Not to mention your hair has become quite the mess. Did you know that?”

Oscar’s eyes close, and Dorian hears him huff out a sound close to a small laugh.

“Just my hair? I’ll work on fixing that later.”

“And later you shall,” says Vivienne, her voice adding to the conversation. Dorian turns to look up at her, having forgotten for a brief moment that she had still been present. She glances at him, offering Dorian the smallest of her own smiles. How rare for him to see. “For now perhaps you should rest some more. We will all still be here when you next wake.”

Noting the way Oscar seems to be losing his battle against sleep once again Dorian finds himself agreeing with Vivienne’s reassurances. He goes to move his hand away from Oscar’s forehead, yet as soon as he removes it he feels the way Oscar reaches up to grasp it weakly with his own good hand. Both Vivienne and Dorian turn at the action, watching how Oscar’s brow deepens even with his eyes still closed.

“When I wake … I must speak with my advisors,” He says, words already beginning to lace themselves heavy with the sleep falling over him. “It is imperative. I have ... important news which must be discussed at the … earliest convenience for them.”

“Of course dear,” Vivienne answers, giving a slow nod. “It shall be done. But for now, just rest.”

As Oscar falls back into slumber, Vivienne shares a look with Dorian which expresses the same curiosity he feels from the Herald’s words. There is worry etched into her features, one which Dorian can expect is reflected silently back at her in return.

For Oscar to have something to discuss that was so serious he felt the need to tell them both, neither of them expect the news he has to share can mean anything good. And from the little Dorian had seen with Cassandra and Varric whilst fighting to buy time back at Haven, he knows the real problems they’re to face have only just begun.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how last chapter I said I thought I'd kicked my writing rut away?  
> ... Well, it came back. Very sorry for the delayed upload.  
> During the wait for this chapter however, I did post [a small little ficlet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318704), set a few years after the events of the main game.

Oscar expects the Inquisition’s advisors were to find him quickly once he woken more, knowing all too well they would likely be apprehensive towards what news it was he needed to share with them. What he doesn't expect is for other members of the Inner Circle to be present too. Yet he finds it reassuring somehow, seeing for himself that the likes of Varric and Bull still live with his own eyes, and despite Mother Giselle's earlier insistence that he should not be crowded by too many people at one time just yet, Oscar is thankful to hear all around him speak of the survival of those absent from the discussion too.   
  
In a strange way he can't help but to be glad that not everyone is present while he explains what he remembers having been through. Already he feels uncomfortable by the weight of all the mixtures of disbelief and concern in the looks trained his way. Oscar knows that had he been in any of their positions he would likely wear the same worry, carry that same slight hope that maybe what was being told to them was nothing more but a lie or just the recalling of a rather vivid dream. Even while he explains his confrontation with Corypheus it sounds like fantasy to his own ears, and Oscar almost wishes it were. Speaking of what happened and what he had learnt whilst Haven fell is almost as if he were reliving the heavy dread and terror which had stirred deep within the pit of his stomach at the time, and Oscar is thankful that no one brings attention to the slight trembling in his fidgeting hands. It doesn't help everything is made all the more confusing by the haze which remains clouding over his mind; lurking with its presence and making his thoughts muddled and disorganised every now and then.  
  
Oscar is almost relieved when a heavy silence over them is broken by Bull, the sound of the Qunari's familiar voice managing to pull him out of reliving his hellish memories.  
  
"So this Corypheus. He's what exactly? An ancient Tevinter magister? A different kind darkspawn? What?"  
  
"He's both, I think," Oscar replies, turning to stare down at the thin blankets and heavy furs covering his lap. "He used to be a magister at some point in his life. Now he's ... almost a shell of that self, corrupted somehow. I don't know how it is he still manages to live, and I don't know what the lyrium does to enhance what already was there, but he’s ... something bad."  
  
"So you say," Cassandra says. Oscar looks up in time to catch her turn a bewildered glare from him to where Varric stands beside her, picking up on the way Varric is frowning deeply.  
  
"When you spoke of Corypheus before, you did not describe him to be this," Oscar raises a questioning eyebrow as Cassandra's glare turns sharp, the way in which he has since come to learn she does whenever she’s angry. "You also told me that he was dead, yet right now he appears to be very much the opposite of that."  
  
"Wait," Oscar begins to say, causing the two of them to turn to him. "You know of Corypheus, Varric?"  
  
Varric lets out a deep and heavy sigh, rubbing a hand against his forehead tiredly.

“Yeah, I know of him alright,” He replies, letting his hand fall back to his side once more. “Hawke and I ended up in this old Warden tower once whilst we were dealing with something linking back to the Carta. It … was weird. The tower was an old prison the Wardens used to use, likely to seal away all of those they didn’t ever want reaching the surface again. We found Corypheus there as he woke up, but he wasn’t like what you describe him as now. Back then he was more like a confused, angry old man babbling on about Dumat.”

“Dumat?” Dorian asks, crossing his arms over his chest with a frown. “So you mean to say that not _only_ are we dealing with an ancient darkspawn magister, but one who also happens to have some sort of a connection to the Archdemon which brought about the first blight? Well, doesn’t this just keep getting better and better for us all?”

“I know, I know. It sounds crazy,” Varric begins, holding his hands up in front of himself as he continues. “But then again all of this shit does. And I wasn’t lying to you Seeker -”

He turns his attention back to Cassandra, meeting her still sharp glare with a determined look of his own.

“Corypheus was as dead as dead can be when Hawke and I were through with him. We made _sure_ he was too. How it is he’s alive now I can’t say, but if he’s as dangerous now he’s fully awoken as he sounds from what the Herald’s told us, then I can guarantee you that our situation has just gotten much more dangerous.”

“And from what I saw, he certainly is.”

Oscar lets out a heavy breath as he speaks, mimicking Varric’s earlier action as he rubs a hand against his own forehead. He closes his eyes tightly, attempting to push away the tension beginning to build at his temple again. It’s a pain which irritates him, almost as much as the hazy sensation over his thoughts does, and the more the conversation moves forward the greater it builds up, making him feel making him feel more aggravated, something to pile on top of the troubled feeling that had slowly been making itself known.

“He has some kind of orb with him,” Oscar continues, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not completely sure what it is, but I think it’s tied to the mark on my hand. Corypheus called it an anchor, and when he tried to remove it from me…”

“He attempted to do so by using this orb of his,” Cassandra guesses for him. Silently, Oscar nods as he attempts to hold back a grimace.

“How does someone -- some _thing_ \-- like that simply come back from the dead? It seems as if it should an impossible task to carry out,” Cullen says, his bewilderment clear simply from his words.

“And yet this Corypheus seems to have achieved such a feat,” Leliana replies.

“We cannot deal with him, not with how things are for us right now.”

“Who else is able to?” Cullen asks. His tone changes quickly from confusion that of to impatience, and even with his eyes still closed Oscar can easily picture the way Cullen’s brow is likely furrowing after Josephine’s response. “It’s clear that he’s the cause of all that has come to pass up since the breach first opened, and that he wants the mark which the Herald carries. The Inquisition is the only force out there which will be able to face him; especially now that he’s more or less marked us all as his enemy.”

“Have you gone blind Commander?”Josephine counters. “Look around you. We are not _fit_ to fight. All that we had has been taken from us, including our means of shelter, our own base of operations. How do you expect the Inquisition’s forces to fight when we are struggling enough for the basic requirements needed in order to simply survive?”

“Josephine is right,” Leliana adds. “While I _do_ agree that we will have to deal with this threat eventually, we first need to rebuild what it is we have managed to lose. Moral is currently at a low, we have nowhere in which we can go to before we even begin to think of our next move -”

“Why aren’t we doing more to search for somewhere then?” Cullen interrupts irritably. “We’ve sent out a small selection of your spies, but that’s it. We have soldiers who would be more than happy to aid in searching for somewhere permanent for our people to stay -”

“But what happens if our main camp here were to be attacked whilst those men search, Commander? Who would defend it?” Cassandra adds. “Many of our men have already sustained injuries during our escape, and we still do not know if any red templars survived and are looking for us. We must recover before we set out, rest while we can -”

“Resting in the frightful chill of all this snow. What a novelty for us all.” Dorian scoffs under his breath, just loud enough that he’s heard by all.

“I don’t see you bringing anything better to the discussion, Vint,” adds Bull.

“Lord Pavus _does_ have a valid point however.” sighs Josephine tiredly. “Our people would heal much sooner if we had a roof over our heads. The cold enough is a large hinderance on some recoveries.”

“And we’d have one _sooner_ if we sent out more scouts. I'm not suggesting we send out all our capable soldiers here, just enough --”

“Sweet Andraste, would the lot of you please just _shut up?_ ”

All of a sudden the bickering stops. Everyone turns to face Oscar, who presses his hand against his forehead again. The number of raised voices surrounding him only managed to elevate his discomfort, and Oscar can barely stand it.

"You alright boss?"

Oscar opens his eyes and turns his head towards Bull giving him a strained smile, hoping it would be enough to ward away the concern.

"It's nothing. Just a slight headache," He says, brushing the question to one side. Everyone else around him shares the same mixture of worry across their faces as Bull wore, yet Oscar choices to ignore it as he carries on speaking. "Arguing with one another is not going to help right now. We need to be working together, not turning against each other."

He watches as his advisors, Cassandra and Dorian manage to appear somewhat sheepish. Oscar shares a quick glance in Varric’s direction, the dwarf looking as if he had aged several years under the weight of importance the conversation had brought. Oscar feels he can relate on some level, what with the both of them having already come face to face with their terrorising new enemy before now. He wonders if maybe Varric is just as unsure of what's to come as he is, if they both share in the same fear over not knowing what the path which inevitably lies before them may bring with it in it’s wake.

Oscar tries to push those worries away for the time being, trying to stay focused on what was happening in the present. His attention moves back to Bull again.

"The rest of the Inner Circle needs to know about what we have discussed here too. And you are welcome to tell your Chargers," Oscar says, knowing well enough that Bull would likely tell his men everything regardless of if he had been given permission to do so or not. "Try not to share what has been spoken here to anyone else for the time being. The people of Haven are shaken enough as it is, it would be best not to have them worrying over this too."

"They shall be told," says Cassandra. Oscar gives a short nod in reply.

"Alright. There was nothing more I had to say, so --"

"You should rest, Herald," Cullen interrupts, his concern carrying strong in his voice. "It is important that you rebuild your strength."

"I've been resting more than enough. I can at least read."

"If you must insist on reading then I can find you the report on how our supplies are doing currently," Leliana offers. "Perhaps you may have some ideas on what we can do about the things we'll soon be requiring more of."

Oscar gives another nod in agreement, knowing that it's the best he can do to help given his current condition. Most of the group around him start to leave after -- likely to fret over what had just been discussed in their own privacy -- yet Varric and Dorian stay close. Oscar tiredly rubs at his forehead once more, trying again to lessen the pain there.

"I'd ask you to tell me more about what happened when you and Hawke found Corypheus, but I'm afraid I'll barely be able to concentrate on this report of Leliana's, let alone something which I sense is much more complicated to explain."

Varric breathes out a small chuckle, the corners of his lips turning upwards into the first smile Oscar's seen from him that evening.

"You got that right. I'll write what I can remember down for you to read at a more convenient time. As I said earlier, it's a pretty weird turn of events."

"How is it Corypheus never managed to make it into the book you wrote about the Champion?" Dorian asks, resting his hands on his hips as he frowns in bewilderment at Varric. "You included the battle with the Arishok, how it is you all ended up aiding Tallis, even the story of how Anders was the one to blow up the Chantry, yet as far as I recall there was nothing at all about you all stumbling upon discovering Corypheus?"

Varric sighs heavily, staring down at his hands as he starts to fidget with his hands.

"There were some things that happened and were found that seemed too personal to be put into a book at the time, Sparkler. We followed that Carta lead in an attempt to help out Hawke and her family, and you have to remember that before I am a writer I am Hawke's friend. I like to think I’m a damn good friend too. At the time she'd just lost her mother, was attempting to reconnect more with her brother ... and that particular adventure felt like one that was best left to be private."

“Ah, so not everything does make it into your books? I’m somewhat surprised.”

Varric lets out another small laugh at that, appearing amused. Even Oscar can’t help the way he smiles to himself from hearing Dorian’s comment.

“Unlike what you may think Sparkler, I do actually limit myself to what I’ll include and what I won’t. Not everything can be turned into entertainment, after all.” Varric looks to Oscar briefly. “It’s good to see you awake, Herald. And alive.”

He turns to walk away, leaving Oscar and Dorian together. Oscar lets out a heavy sigh, moving his good hand to pull up some of the blankets and furs covering him, wanting to keep some of the warmth they provided him with closer. Despite having survived and regained most of his own body heat by now, Oscar was still instructed to keep as warm as he could through his recovery, especially with the coldness biting the air still. It was per Mother Giselle's instructions, and Oscar knew better than to argue. Every now and then Dorian would come to his side, offering to warm his blankets with his fire magic. As he touches the blankets now, Oscar notices how the last enchantments have left the material, making them a little cooler than they had been earlier.

“Now don’t lie,” Oscar hears Dorian say, causing him to look towards where Dorian has moved to stand beside him. “Just how bad is that headache of yours? I think we could all tell it’s been bothering you more than you let on.”

Oscar deflates, sighing.

“It’s more that it’s there at all then how bad it is. I’ll be fine,” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly in thought for a second. “Although if you want honesty, I doubt I’ll be reading over Leliana’s report for a little while this evening. Don’t tell Cullen, but I’m rather more inclined to his suggestion of simply resting.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame you if you did,” Dorian replies, moving to kneel next to Oscar’s side.

Wordlessly he holds out his hand, signalling to Oscar to hand him some of the blankets he’s fighting with. Oscar responds, watching as Dorian’s fingers lightly trace along the edge before resting against the material. Dorian’s hands light up, his magic shining orange in colour as it starts to warm. It’s mesmerising in a way, at least to Oscar. He knew a few fire spells himself, but nothing like that of which Dorian did. But then his magic worked slightly differently to Dorian’s, especially since the anchor he carries came into play.

“I haven’t brought it up with the others yet, nor Giselle or Vivienne --” Oscar begins, eyes still trained steadily on Dorian’s warming magic. “But I’m thinking about seeing what I’m like with walking about tomorrow.”

Dorian looks up and at Oscar, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Is that wise?” He asks. “I mean, Lady Vivienne healed your ankle as best as she could, but she did say that the bruising --”

“Was likely due to muscle strain, I know,” Oscar says.”And I know she advised I wait out for that to heal, but it’s truly not bothering me that much. I can at least try.”

“Oscar --” Dorian hesitates. Oscar waits, understanding that Dorian is likely considering what is best he wants to say. His magic stops flowing, attention instead focused on the Herald himself. “You don’t have to push yourself so soon.”

"And I won't. But the sooner I'm on my feet, the sooner we can move forward and find somewhere for the Inquisition to stay." Oscar pauses, watching Dorian's expression. He's hardly convinced, and Oscar shares a small little smile in aims to reassure him. "It's not much of a secret that the reason everyone's so set on staying in one place right now is mostly because of me."

Dorian watches him for a long moment, as if trying to work out for if Oscar is holding back on how he's really feeling. Oscar doesn't respond, and eventually Dorian gives in.

 _"Kaffas._ Alright, I'll respect your wishes. Let it be known however that should you feel the need to have someone by your side to aid you in this endeavour, I'm with you. That is, if you wish me to be."

"Careful Dorian, it almost sounds as if you're worried about me," Oscar says, causing Dorian to sigh.

"We thought you to have died and it turned out you hadn't, of course I'm going to be bloody worried about you possibly doing too much too soon."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“... And what would you have me tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do, it isn’t what we would ask anyone to do!”

“Yet we cannot simply ignore this, Commander! We _must_ find a way!”

“Oh? And who put you in charge Seeker? What we need is a consensus. If we don’t have that, then we have nothing!”

“Both of you please, we must use reason! The Herald was right, if we keep arguing with one another like this the infrastructure of the Inquisition will crumble until it breaks entirely, and without that infrastructure were hobbled!”

“Well that can’t come from nowhere, Montilyet!”

“She wasn’t trying to make it seem like it could!”

“Enough! All of you! This is getting us nowhere!”

“Oh well, thank you for pointing that out to us Seeker, I’m glad we’re agreed on _that much_ at least!”

From where he lays Oscar silently watches the argument happening within the camp. He had long since given up on the sleep he had hoped to catch, having discovered rather quickly that it would be impossible with the raised voices belonging to the Inquisitions advisors. They just wouldn’t stop either, and from what Oscar had heard so far since he had been listening they would argue about one thing for a while, before soon finding something else they couldn’t agree upon and switching to that. How it was they even had the energy to do so after so long … Oscar couldn’t say.

“You should be resting.”

Oscar turns his head at the sound of the voice, finding Mother Giselle moving to sit on the now vacant cot beside him. She looks tired, but then Oscar figures that’s a given what with how she’s been caring to their wounded for so long whilst on what he wouldn’t be surprised was very little sleep.

Rather than answering her, Oscar focuses back onto the argument, nod his head towards its direction.

“They’ve been arguing like this for hours. No one can rest through that.”

“And it is thanks to you that they can afford the luxury to now do so,” The Revered Mother replies. Oscar gives her a quizzical look, remaining silent so she can continue. “You gave us what we needed most, what we still need now. Time. With time we think, and when we think we begin to doubt ourselves, and when we doubt we turn to blame. But we must be careful. Infighting, can be as much of a threat as our new enemy can be.”

“I tried telling them that,” Says Oscar, breathing out a sigh. Another shout from the group reaches his ears, causing him to rub his forehead in frustration. “Their raised voices are making my head ache. Shouldn’t someone try to stop them? I’ll do it. I should probably be involved in whatever conversation they’re trying to have anyway.”

“I do not believe another heated voice will help, even if it is yours. Perhaps especially yours.”

Oscar frowns.

“What do you mean by that?”

There is a brief quietness between them, and Oscar watches whilst Mother Giselle tries to think about what is the best way to say what she feels.

“The main reason why our leaders are struggling is because of what it was our survivors witnessed for themselves. You must not forget that, Your Worship. For we saw our defender stand… then fall. And yet, somehow, you have returned to us.”

She looks up, focusing on Oscar intently as her words carry on.

“The greater we appear to be in danger, the more the enemy is standing at our gates, the more miraculous the actions you choose appear to the rest of us. Our trails begin to feel less randomised, and appear more ordained.”

“You can’t possibly be saying --” Oscar begins to say, before he is cut off by Giselle.

“It is difficult to accept, no? What it is _we_ have been called to endure? What it is that, _we,_ perhaps, must come to believe?”

Oscar tries to sit up then, frowning as he fully begins to understand what it is he is hearing.

“Don’t you think that now is not the time for that sort of discussion?”

“Perhaps you are right, and it is not. Or perhaps now is the perfect time,” Giselle tilts her head, watching Oscar as if she were trying to work something out. “Our survivors were lost at first, with no hope to guide them. And yet, since you have come back --”

“I didn’t _die_ in the first place,” Oscar interrupts.

“To our people it felt as if you had,” says Giselle. “Is it truly so difficult to allow them to believe in something which gives them hope?”

“I never for a moment said they couldn’t _hope_. What they believe is what they believe, and I’m not about to change that for them. However, what I don’t feel is appropriate is you choosing now to question what _my_ beliefs are. What does it even matter if I believe myself to be sent from Andraste herself or not? Either way, it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop doing what it is I’m doing in an attempt to help.”

Giselle doesn’t say anything, and Oscar shakes his head as he lets out another heavy, tired sigh.

“Forgive me. But Mother, I just don’t understand why it matters what I believe. Regardless of if I’m divinely chosen or not, it doesn’t stop the truth being that Corypheus exists. He’s real, Mother Giselle, and he’s a physical threat to us. While hope can be a good thing, I don’t believe we are facing a force that can be defeated by just that alone.”

He stares down at where his good hand rests in his lap, noticing all the cuts and bruises that remain, physical reminders of what he’s been through so far. His hand begins to tremble again as he recalls the memories, and Oscar quickly clenches it into a fist, hoping it’ll halt the movement as he tightly closes his eyes.

“I honestly don’t know what can aid us in beating Corypheus and his Templars.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to [this version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJfif2906Fk) of 'The Dawn Will Come' to give you a better sense of the mood for the last part of this chapter

Despite the book he's been trying to read from, Dorian’s attention has otherwise been focused elsewhere. Or more specifically, focused upon the sight of a very familiar someone moving their way throughout the camp.  
  
He tells himself that it's just out of concern -- after all, whatever else would it be? -- as he watches the Herald slowly come to a stop before a nearby campfire, focus drawn towards the pile of items scattered over a nearby table there. Dorian tries to think about why it is he moves with such care and cautious steadiness upon his own feet, rather than on the how he moves in general. After all, the Herald is still very much recovering from his injuries, and Dorian has since come to care enough to worry about his wellbeing. Even if the man in question is both equally the most stubborn yet determined Dorian has so far come to know.   
  
Dorian certainly doesn't find it endearing to witness as the lady from Haven's old Tavern -- Flissa, he recalls her name to be -- approaches Oscar, hugging him without thought while Oscar's face twists in a mixture of both discomfort and confusion. He can already imagine what it is Flissa wishes to tell him once they eventually pull away, having been present himself whilst Oscar ran into a burning building to save her. Idiotic and reckless behaviour if thought about logically, yes, but then when had anything in that dire moment seemed logical in any sense of the word? Cassandra, Varric and himself knew well enough Oscar would strive for them to help as many of their people find safety as they could, and many -- if not then all -- of those alive in their camp now had the Herald to thank for their lives.   
  
It's definitely not endearing to see, even from a distance, as Oscar shares a small smile and a laugh at something Flissa says, shaking his head lightly as he replies to her. Compared to the smiles he'd worn around them since his return Dorian thinks this might be the one to show the most joy, if only slightly. It makes him smile himself in return, his chest tightening with an unnamed emotion at the reminder of what it looks like. That smile was more a gift to those who were exposed to it, and Dorian can easily remember how Oscar would share it often whilst in his presence before.  
  
Perhaps, if Oscar is finding things to smile properly about again, Dorian thinks he might see more of it. After all, it would be a very welcome sight.  
  
"Oi," Dorian hears someone say, pulling him out of his thoughts with a nudge of their foot against his leg. He turns, frowning up at the person who had interrupted him, only to be met face to face with an irritated Sera sitting across from him. Once his attention is caught Sera leans back to rest against one of the crates gathered around them, crossing her arms over her chest whilst shooting him a disgruntled look.  
  
"Don't just sit there reading, help me out yeah? There's enough pissing stuff here you can help sort through."  
  
Dorian sighs, marking the page he was on before quietly closing his book.  
  
"I thought you said that you didn't want my help?" He replies, referring to the conversation they'd shared a little earlier that morning. If he’s honest Dorian can hardly fathom why it is Sera needs to be sorting through the small selection of books they’d managed to recover during their escape from Haven anyway, yet he supposes at the very least it’s a distraction. Those have felt all too rare to find lately, and what with how frightened she has felt as of late -- even if Sera herself were to deny such assumptions -- Dorian is thankful that there is something they can do both to pass away idle time.

So, he watches Sera as she responds with a shrug, choosing not to look at him.  
  
"So I changed my mind. Nothing wrong with that is there?" She asks, shooting him a glare. "I don't know what half this shit is for, and since you apparently love books so much, you probably have a better idea on if it's got any use or not."  
  
"Oh but my dear that's where you're already wrong. You see all books have their own uses!" He turns, facing Sera better as she huffs out a breath. "However, if you wish for me to aid you in sorting through them, then I would be happy to help."  
  
"As if I meant anything else," Sera answers. She turns to one of the crates behind her, beginning to pull some of the books out. "To me this is all just _stuff._ None of it’s seems overly interesting. Dunno why I've been asked to help with this."  
  
"Yes, it's as much of a mystery to me too." Dorian picks up one of the books, checking the title written upon spine. "Especially if this one alone is anything to go on, I would gather these are all about magic and its various uses."  
  
Sera curls up her nose in disgust. "Ugh. Even more reason for you to help me out then. Besides, beats you sitting there smiling to yourself like an arse."  
  
Dorian ignores the comment -- or at least tries to, as there is no way he's _smiling like an arse_ as Sera so kindly puts it. She is right, however; there is work to be done, so he leaves the memory of Oscar's smile to the back of his mind for the time being. He can allow himself to wonder about such thoughts later.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Rubbing his good hand against his still-healing side, Oscar watches on with bemused amusement as Flissa leaves. Her approach had been somewhat unusual compared to what he’s used to by now, yet not unwelcome. In fact, compared with the watchful eyes Oscar feels surround him at all times and the way many still treat him as if he’ll suddenly break like glass at any given moment, he can’t help but feel thankful someone acted with a sense of normality around him. It has felt like an age since he has not been seen merely as a holy figurehead, and Oscar hadn’t realised just how much he truly craves to be treated as a person before being treated as _‘The Herald’_.

A small voice inside his head reminds him how likely it is that he’ll always be seen as the latter before the former, despite what his own preferences may be. The things which he desires have stopped counting in the greater picture ever since he first received the anchor now embedded within his hand.

“You remain popular among our people, Herald.”

Oscar stills at the familiar voice, amusement vanishing. He turns to his side, soon spotting where Solas stands beside a tent. His hands are gripped around his staff, a small smile present upon his face at having caught Oscar’s attention. Oscar let’s out a small breath of laughter, gazing down at the snow covered ground as he reaches up to run his hand through his hair.

“Apparently so,” He replies.

Solas steps forward, his actions causing Oscar to look up again quickly.

“May we speak, my friend? Perhaps privately?”

“Of course,” Oscar agrees, letting his hand fall as he steps to the side. “Lead the way.”

They walk slowly, Oscar still having to fight against the discomfort felt in both of his legs as well as one of his ankles. Solas doesn’t comment, he simply matches Oscar’s pace, leading him somewhere a little outside of where the Inquisitions camp stands. It’s quieter the further they move away from it, and Oscar wonders if perhaps where they’re heading is where Solas sometimes disappears to whenever they couldn’t find him within the campsite itself.

Eventually Solas stops, and Oscar’s footsteps slow not far behind. He looks at the view around him, taking it all in and quickly deciding that the area could almost be peaceful. There’s little patches of grass attempting to push and grow through the heavy burden of snow covering it, as well as a few odd pine trees standing tall here and there. If Oscar weren’t already so fed up with having seen so much snow to last him for one lifetime, he’d almost comment where Solas has taken him to as being a pretty location.

“How are you feeling?”

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Oscar realises by the way Solas watches him that he is waiting for an answer to his question. There is affection in his expression, the same care which Oscar has seen reflected by both the Inner Circle and the Inquisitions advisors. It is concern, yet a kind which is unmasked from the fear some of the others have worn with along with it own whenever they ask of his current condition.

“I’m getting there,” Oscar replies, choosing honesty with his own words. He feels a sense of trust with Solas, and somehow knows that compared to how other people may approach him, Solas will not likely treat him like a delicate object. “I know better than to expect I’ll be back to my usual self anytime soon, but … I’m doing somewhat better than I have been.”

“You are wise to admit such a thing. Others would try to feign strength to avoid seeming weak. It is foolish to ignore what is truly there before us,” Says Solas, giving a small nod. He looks away from Oscar, letting his hands slide further down from their hold on his staff as he straightens his posture slightly. "But alas; I did not pull you away from the others to tell you what I believe you already know well. I wish to speak about what it was happened in Haven. If you will allow me to?”

“If you wish.”

He doesn’t want to talk more of it, not truly. Oscar still finds himself plagued by nightmares of Corypheus and his Archdemon; warped memories which leave him waking and feeling both disoriented and fearful. But he understands that any information he has may help aid in their future trials against the magister, and that is reason enough to get him to open up.

“Our spymaster spoke of what it was you faced. That Corypheus carried an orb with him, and that he attempted to use whatever power it provides him with against you.”

“That’s right.” Says Oscar. His brow furrows, trying to think of a way to describe what the magic had been like to him. “It was strange, the orb. It’s power … it’s not something I’ve seen or heard about before. It wasn’t anything I’d ever learnt about in my studies within the Circle at least, nor have I ever read about it.”

“You would not have. But I can confirm to you that from my understanding, the power is elven.”

“Elven?” Oscar asks, puzzled.

“Yes. Now but a whisper of an ancient time. The orbs were things said to be foci, channeling power which the gods themselves possessed. For the few who know of their existence it is believed some of the orbs were dedicated to specific members of my people's pantheon, those who were most worthy of such a gift.”

“So you’re suggesting that the orb is an elven artifact? Something that’s been lost for hundreds of years?” Oscar pauses, his confusion growing the more he hears Solas say. “How can you know this with such surety?"

“Because there are remains of the knowledge and existence of these orbs in the ruins I have visited, where references to what they once served linger like shadows. Certain memories and visions -- however faint they are now -- drift within the fade, echoing days long passed from a now dead empire.

“How I came into such knowledge is not of importance for now. What is is that somehow, Corypheus has managed to find himself one of these orbs of legend, and with its power he now threatens the heart of human faith as well as the world itself.”

“Do you believe that the power from this orb he carries could be what caused the breach to open?”

Solas shakes his head at the question. For some reason, what Oscar has heard so far has made his stomach start twisting itself into knots, and it feels as if a cloud of apprehension has fallen over him. It is as if he is waiting for something, for Solas to verify a feeling or a belief which he already knows exists but has tried not to focus on until now.

“It is not a matter of _could_ , Herald. The orb itself _is_ elven, I am sure of it. Knowing that, it is with certainty that the orb is the cause for the breach having opened. However Corypheus managed to unlock its power must have caused the explosion which destroyed the Conclave. As for how Corypheus himself managed to survive I do not know, nor can I provide any certainty over how people would react if they were to learn of the orbs origins.”

Something seems to click into place within Oscar’s mind then, and his focus returns to Solas fully.

“You wish to retrieve the orb, don’t you?”

“ _I_ cannot,” Says Solas, unfazed by Oscar’s question. “It is you who Corypheus has targeted as his enemy now. As long as you are the one among us to carry the anchor, Corypheus will not stop hunting you. Your paths will cross again, Herald. And when they do, you _must_ defeat him.”

A broken laugh breaks free from Oscar, one which holds no amusement within it whatsoever. _This. This_ is what Oscar had been trying not to think about. A cold chill runs down his spine at the mere consideration of facing Corypheus again, goosebumps littering in its path. He had barely survived the first encounter with the magister -- is _still_ currently recovering from what had happened -- and now to have it said so plainly that he is more or less destined to face him again? It’s too much, far too much for any person to carry upon themselves, and if he could he would run far away.

But he’s not that type of person. Oscar never has been. For one, he knows he wouldn’t make it far before the overwhelming sensation of guilt settled within him, forcing to turn back and face his demons. But Oscar also knows that running would not solve anything. For Solas is right. Corypheus knows of his existence now, of what it is he has been burdened with. To save the world and defend it from the darkness -- from the future Oscar knows would befall it if he were to fail in the task, having visited it with Dorian -- Oscar himself is the only thing standing in Corypheus’s way.

“There’s no guarantee that I’m going to even survive at the end of all this,” Oscar begins, knowing all too well that there is a heavy possibility Corypheus’s defeat could also come hand in hand with his own death. “I might not even be alive to retrieve this orb, Solas.”

“You must do what you must,” Solas replies, his tone calm as always. “I believe you doubt your own potential. Please, answer me something.”

Despite his reluctance Oscar listens, raising an eyebrow to show he waits for Solas’s question.

“Before Commander Cullen and the others found you, did anything strange happen with the anchor?”

Oscar’s eyes widen, remembering the cavern he had woken in after fleeing from Corypheus and his archdemon. His memories of that time are blurred, coming to his mind in spurts, yet he can recall enough. The despair demons which began to approach where he had laid, the way the anchor had crackled and glowed unnaturally from his hand. He remembers deliriously pushing past the searing pain to stretch his arm out, how the cavern had grown brighter and louder as power filled the air around him. The demons disappearing, destroyed by the anchors energy, leaving him alone once more.

"I ... yes. There was something," Oscar answers. His gaze falls to his bandaged arm for a brief moment before turning towards back to Solas. "How did you --"

"It was another theory I had," Interrupts Solas, a hint of renewed interest perking up his expression. He removes one of his hands from where they grip his staff, moving it as he continues speaking, the motion flowing with his words.

"Your mark was behaving differently than usual when you were brought to us, and I inspected it, cautious that it was not having an adverse effect upon you. Upon what I came to notice it doing I wondered then if perhaps there was more reason as to why it appeared to be adapting, and it seems that I am correct. When you have the time available I would very much like to learn and assess more of how it has changed, yet for now I can only tell you this. If this anchor of yours continues to adapt in the way I believe it do so, you continue to be an enigma that not even Corypheus himself is able to comprehend. If it is evolving, then as it is very much a part of you you also are evolving along with it. That means that the anchor is making you an ever stronger threat towards him.”

"And here I’ve still been struggling getting myself used to being referred as the _‘Herald of Andraste’_. If what you believe is true, then all I can say in response from what I recall reading about through history books is that a growing power isn't always a good thing."

"Indeed. But as history itself often illustrates, it is not often the power that grows corrupt, but those who use it for impure intentions." A pause, and Solas tilts his head slightly, appearing to almost assess Oscar. "So far, your actions have been born out of a desire to do well for the greater good of those who have faith in you. Despite faith tending to make martyrs of its champions, a trust such as the kind it carries is not built or brought, my friend. It is earned."

Oscar takes a moment of thought to consider Solas’s words. There is a wisdom held within them, he cannot deny, and for a brief second Oscar wonders how much of the world Solas has seen in his dreams to be able to be in possession of such knowledge. Despite the attempts to sooth some of his concerns however Oscar can still sense the chill of fears fingertips linger beneath his very skin at the thought of what is likely to come in the future ahead, an ever present sensation even if lessened in its grip.

“Nonetheless,” continues Solas after a brief silence has passed. “That kind of trust cannot grow from within the wilderness. You, and the Inquisition, will require every advantage. And that brings me to one more thing.”

Solas takes a step forward, his staff dragging in the snow by his side, leaving a line in it’s path.

“There is a place where the Inquisition can build and grow, one which waits for a force to hold it. Speak to your advisors, tell them to scout to the north. You will find it.”

“How do you know of this place?” Oscar asks, frowning. “Why haven’t you said something before now?”

“I only recently discovered it whilst dreaming. If I knew of its existence sooner I would have said something, I can assure you.” Determination crosses Solas’s face, steel in it’s appearance like the strength of a sword. “By attacking the Inquisition however, Corypheus has managed to change it. He has changed you. With this information you can become their guide. Provide your people with something to believe in once again, Herald.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The Inquisitions advisors respond to the news of Solas’s discovery with both skepticism and wariness. But also with hope, one which is reflecting within them all as they consider what it would mean if the elf's advice was accurate. It would be a retreat removing them out of the desperation of their current situation, a place which could allow them to develop the Inquisition into the force the word needs it to become.

After a while, it is decided that such an opportunity is one they simply cannot refuse to look further into, and so Oscar, Leliana, Cassandra and Cullen begin to plan out a safe route through the hazardous mountains that would allow all to pass through. The discussions take a while, and by the time they’re finished Oscar feels very much drained. The others are tired too, yet all four of them embrace upon the sensation of a new found confidence building within them, a confidence which hadn’t been present there that morning.

It is early evening by the time Oscar is left with his own thoughts, and he chooses to spend some time sitting before a small burning campfire. As he stares into the flames before him Oscar turns contemplative, for once focusing on the possibilities for their group's future rather than the echoes of Corypheus’s attack. It’s a welcome change, he thinks, to finally discover some trace of hope to latch onto, no matter how small it may truly be.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Oscar looks up at the interruption, noticing Dorian standing beside him. He lets out out a breath, shaking his head as a small smile begins to pull at the corner of his lips.

“Just thinking,” He replies, watching how Dorian moves to sit beside him. Oscar pulls at the blankets draped over his shoulders, pulling it closer against his body as Dorian settles, yet as he faces him again Oscar notices the questioning look Dorian wears towards it. “Mother Giselle’s orders. She says I have to make sure to keep warm at night, just to make sure I don’t manage to catch another chill from the cold. And with my normal coat more or less in tatters, this is the best I can do.”

Dorian nods, relaxing by Oscar's side as he understands.

“We wouldn’t want you freezing now would we? Not with all the trouble it took to put you back together the first time around.”

Oscar breaths out a soft laugh. “Don’t tell her I said so, but it’s more that I wouldn’t want the Revered Mother upset with me. She seemed very adamant in the request, and I’d rather not be on the receiving end of her telling me ‘I told you so’.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Dorian replies. He turns to look towards Oscar, interest lighting up his face. By the firelight, the expression appears … soft, somewhat. Or at least Oscar thought so. “So, this _Skyhold_ place we’re apparently all going to be searching for soon...”

“Heard about that did you?” Oscar asks. He’s not even surprised Dorian knows, the man certainly has a knack for being one of the first in their group to learn about such things.

“But of course, most of the camp know by now I would imagine. I am most curious about what it might end up being. And so far out of the way as well, it's most unusual. Do you know anything more about it?”

“Unfortunately, no. For all I know it could be an abandoned village of some kind. Not that I’ve seen it marked on any of the maps we have if it is,” Oscar pauses, frowning slightly as he glances towards Dorian. “As far as I know, most of the north is just mountains and nothing more. But I trust Solas, and his guidance hasn’t failed us yet. If he believes something is there, then we’ll check it out.”

“I suppose he does have his uses when it comes to these things,” Dorian sighs. The action causes Oscar to smile once more, offering a one shouldered shrug.

“At this point, as long as there’s four walls and a ceiling waiting for us I’ll be happy to take anything. I’m sure everyone else feels the same way.”

“Quite. I admit that despite my time spent adapting to your ways here within the south, the snow has not been my favourite thing to deal with.”

“Nor the caves,” Oscar adds, causing Dorian to raise an eyebrow towards him. “Varric told me you weren’t overly keen on those either. Not that I blame you. They’re usually filled with too many spiders for my liking.”

Oscar can’t help the way he squirms slightly at the mere thought of spiders; the image of their spindly legs sending a shiver down his back. Dorian appears to notice his sudden discomfort, if the way the corners of his lips tilt upwards is any indication to go by.

“Wait a moment …” He says, turning so he can face Oscar a little better. “Does our beloved Herald perhaps have a fear of spiders?”

"It's not as if it's irrational to not be fond of them," Oscar defends. "You've seen how large they can be! You can't honestly tell me anything with that many legs is _comforting._ "

"You face danger more or less around every corner, yet it's spiders that draw the line for you?" Asks Dorian, a hint of amusement apparent in his voice. "Incredible."

"How is _that_ incredible?"

Dorian's joy seems to be contagious, if the way Oscar's words are laced around a chuckle is any indication. Dorian's eyes shine, the edge of his signature mischief appearing there.

"Because it's another thing about you I didn't know before. I feel as if I've uncovered another puzzle piece, although now that I think back on it, this does explain why you've always been so eager for us to be done and move on from any situation including those giant creatures we're always stumbling upon."

"That and I'm not terribly fond of the way they spit poison at you. Sort of doesn't help their case in not appearing hostile."

Dorian laughs, and Oscar finds his smile growing at the sight. Since the time they'd met Oscar has always found Dorian's laugh to be a wonderful sound, and something that he would like to hear more of. But there's something else as he hears it now, the sound causing a welcome ache to make itself known within his chest.

Dorian's laugh fades, and he looks at Oscar with what Oscar is sure is the softest expression he has ever seen him wear. All traces of teasing and jesting from before have gone, and in their place there is a kindness; one which Dorian seems to use oh so rarely.

"I'm glad you lived."

The words are spoken with such honesty, such relief that Oscar can't help but to feel an edge of sadness from them somehow somehow. He can't imagine how things must have been for everyone whilst he was lost to them, yet given Dorian's reactions he realises it was a time filled with much difficulty. It's strange to Oscar, knowing that there was someone who had missed him; and missed him not because he was the Herald, but simply because he was himself.

Oscar shares a caring smile; his eyes softening as he replies.

"Believe it or not, I'm rather glad I did too."

The two of them sit in a long stretch of silence, smiling at one another before Dorian eventually turns to stare down at his hands. Oscar looks away too, turning his attention to wrapping his blanket closer around himself once more. His eyelids feel heavy, body drained from the day he’s had, and Oscar fights with himself to not give in to the temptation of simply resting his head against Dorian’s shoulder for a moment or two.

“Oi, move your foot, Herald.”

Oscar and Dorian’s attention pull towards the voice, and as Oscar slides his foot to make room on the snowy ground, Sera moves to sit by his legs before the fire. Across from them all Blackwall -- having arrived along with Sera -- sits down too, heaving out a heavy sigh as he does so.

“Is that how you speak to all your superiors, Sera?” Dorian asks, prompting Sera to respond with a snort.

 _“Superiors._ The Herald’s used to me speaking to him like that by now, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never known you to act any differently,” Oscar replies. “Nor would I want you to either.”

“See?” Sera says to Dorian, turning to Oscar again afterwards. “How’s that arm of yours? Still all fractured and mark more glowly?”

“The anchors stopped glowing, but my arm still needs time to repair properly.”

Sera’s face curls up at that, but Oscar knows her well enough by now to tell that it’s out of sympathy rather than annoyance. She’d made her feelings on how injured he had been known very strongly, and Oscar still can remember the rage she had worn upon her face all too vividly. A rage which was born out of both fear and worry, emotions which have since calmed enough to leave compassion in their stead.

"Bit of a shame it's all broken and injured now though, innit? When you haven't got any important things to write."

"I'm sure Josephine would have found some way for him to continue writing those things if it had come to it," Dorian says, shaking his head at the thought. "She seems like the kind of person who would be determined enough to do that, after all." 

“Not that I like interrupting you all, but is it just me, or do you the rest of you hear that?” Asks Blackwall, pulling Dorian and Sera out of their conversation. They quieten down, the four of them suddenly trying hard to listen for what Blackwall has picked up on.

_Shadows fall, and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come…_

“Is that … is someone _singing?_ ” Sera asks, quickly being shushed by the way Oscar waves his good, uninjured hand towards her.

_… The night is long, and the path is dark …_

“It sounds to me like the Spymasters’ voice. And … perhaps Mother Giselle’s also?”

Curious, Oscar turns his head towards where the song is coming from. His eyes scan across the edges of the camp, spotting nothing at first. Until he finds what he’s looking for.

Near a selection of tents which are scattered about near another area of the camp, Oscar notices the familiar side of Leliana’s pulled up hood as she sits up the ground, the Revered Mother standing by her side. Dorian’s guess that they were the ones singing is right, but as the song continues, more and more of the people sitting around the two women join in.

 _… Look to the sky, for one day soon …_   
_… The dawn will come._

“They’re _all_ singing.” Dorian says with astonishment. “All of them.”

The small little circle gathered around Leliana and Mother Giselle is filled with a variety amongst them: a mixture of soldiers, civilians and other Inquisition members alike, all of them singing. The sound is a harmony dancing on the wind, light as it travels throughout the camp. Oscar finds it uplifting, straightening his posture as he focuses on listening to the song.

“It’s a song of hope,” Blackwall provides. “I've heard it before. We haven’t had much to hope for in a while. Maybe now people are finding something to believe in again.”

_Hope._

Oscar’s not sure if he can see it himself, at least not quite yet. But if there is a shred of light which is helping others to keep moving forward after all they’d been through, if they’ve finally found something worthy enough for them to sing again, he can hardly see it as being anything bad.

Suddenly, his thoughts turn to the sister he has not seen in years, imagining her aiding within the Ostwick Chantry. As he listens to each word being sung he imagines her voice, soft like a songbirds, filling peoples hearts with faith as they stop to pray.

 _The shepherd's lost, and his home is far._  
_Keep to the stars, the dawn will come._


	8. Chapter 8

Skyhold is not like anything Oscar could have known it to be. Infact, it far surpasses his expectations.  
  
Oscar had thought Solas would lead them to a village, or a small town; either long abandoned or just unknown enough to hide itself away. It became clearer to him as the travelled that he was likely wrong, especially as the land grew ever more treacherous to manoeuvre through and the mountains seemed to reach taller. Snow often met ice and with ice came caution, and for a single moment Oscar wondered if perhaps the place Solas had travelled to in dreams was nothing more than a mere figment.   
  
But then as Oscar struggles to pull his tired body up to stand on a level of rockery, he looks ahead of him in search for the elf, only for his eyes to widen at the sight before him.   
  
In the distance stands Skyhold -- a fortress among the sky itself. It is hidden among the mountains, lost to the world outside. Both the snow and clouds gather around it, aiding in making the image Oscar is met with upon his first introduction almost celestial.   
  
He soon realises Skyhold is everything that they needed.   
  
It’s a mess when they first arrive, having been obviously untouched by anyone else for a number of years. There are places where the walls have managed to crumble after never meeting their required repairs, rooms filled with useless wreckage and rotting pieces of wood which are clearly of no further use. It requires a lot of work before it would once again be standing as something containing pride, but then, so does the Inquisition’s wounded order itself.   
  
There is a potential with Skyhold, one which Oscar and all his advisors and the Inquisition’s Inner Circle see. And so, they work on its recovery.   
  
Where Haven fell, Skyhold begins its rise. In an almost strange way, it feels as if the order has finally found its true home.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
What surprises Oscar the most, however, comes two weeks later.  
  
Out of all of those who had helped the Inquisition to grow, Oscar would have considered himself one of the last candidates for the role of Inquisitor. Infact out of anyone he would have expected the role to be handed to Cassandra; considering it had been by her doing that the Inquisition lived in the first place. Not to mention that if he were asked out of who made the better leader out either of them, Oscar would have easily said it was Cassandra.  
  
And yet they pick him. His advisors pick him. The Inner Circle pick him. The people pick him.  
  
Him. The man who was lucky enough to survive one catastrophe after another, by the looks of things. The man who not long ago had been but a mage -- an apostate at that thanks to the meaningless war -- and before had devoted the majority of his life to the Circle he had grown up in.   
  
He had been a nobody. Now though, he appears to be .... almost everything. The last hope of Thedas. The Herald sent by Andraste’s own hand, and now, Lord Inquisitor of what history will one day write as the mighty Inquisition.  
  
It is more than he has ever been before, so much so, and yet as he looks out onto the sea of faces standing below him, Oscar realises he doesn’t want to disappoint them. If he can.   
  
And so, he raises the ceremonial sword offered to him by Leliana, and with words he hopes sound encouraging, raises it up towards the sky.   
  
The crowd cheers. A happiness which had been lost since Haven suddenly fills the air, and Oscar recalls the moment of when people sang before, the words Blackwall had spoken then springing prominently to his mind.   
  
_“We haven’t had much to hope for in a while. Maybe now people are finding something to believe in again.”_  
  
If he is their hope, their belief, Oscar promises to do his absolute best to be enough for them. Inside he still feels very much terrified and unsure of what is to come for any of them, but from his outer appearance? The mask he will now wear as Inquisitor, as these people’s leader? He decides he will play the part of their strength.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
For some time Oscar finds his new title strange. He jokes to Cullen about how 'Inquisitor Trevelyan' doesn't quite slip off the tongue all that easily, to which Cullen responds by telling him he feels the title could fit better on no other person he knows. The faith the Commander has in him startles Oscar at first, a dawn on understanding just how much the people he works alongside with have confidence in his abilities, how much they have begun to look to him as much as he looks to them. He has become important to them; not just as a figurehead, but as a dear friend.   
  
When he walks around the keep, people now acknowledge him as either 'Herald' or 'Inquisitor', and Oscar finds he is noticed far more now than he was before. Even simple journeys from one room to another are met with someone spotting him, and Oscar finds it increasingly difficult to slip away into the shadows like he used to be able to. He has become the light, vibrant and bright, always shining. Always seen.  
  
Varric takes amusement out of it on the occasions he senses Oscar has had one too many acknowledgements. He passes by where he sits before a freshly cleaned out fireplace to write one day, spotting the grin he wears stretched across his face. If it weren't for the fact Leliana needed the reports he held in his hand, Oscar would have stopped to indulge in Varric's humour. Instead, he walks through the room Solas has claimed for his research, heading towards the stairs which lead to the library above.  
  
He doesn't expect to bump into Dorian on his travels.   
  
Dorian is kneeling before a bookcase, obviously trying to organise it if the selection of books piled around him is of any indication to go by. He scratches his chin in thought, turning his attention away from the bookcase as Oscar finishes walking up the staircase. Dorian's expression lights up at the sight of Oscar, and Oscar himself tries to ignore the way his own heart soars at the way Dorian looks at him approvingly.  
  
"Well well," Dorian begins to say, the corners of his lips beginning to tilt mischievously. "If I had known being the Inquisitor meant receiving a new wardrobe, perhaps I would have offered my services sooner."  
  
Oscar glances down at himself briefly, knowing Dorian was speaking of the new outfit he'd been instructed to wear whenever he was around Skyhold. It was surprisingly warm and comfortable, whilst still looking regal enough to make an impression on any visiting nobles or dignitaries they may come to have. He had even been provided with new white, leather gloves to wear as well as a thick white scarf, and his boots felt better than the tired old pair he had been wearing before.   
  
"I'm following Josephine's orders," Oscar explains, looking towards Dorian once more as he rises to his feet. "You'd think armour would be the important thing to request first, but apparently it was more of a crime for me to walk around looking like my usual self. Oh but Dorian, you should have seen the beige."  
  
"I doubt it would have suited you," says Dorian, crossing his arms. "Beige is such a plain colour, and you are easily anything but plain. But this? This I like. Good choice."  
  
Oscar breathes out a laugh, unable to fight the smile which wants to stretch itself across his face from the approval. He misses the way Dorian smiles at him warmly in return while he instead shakes his head through his laughter, looking back up at him just as Dorian moves to lean against the stone wall.  
  
"You appear to be more like yourself lately. Or at least from what I remember you to be like during our small time at Haven before everything went to shit again," says Dorian, tilting his head to one side. "Am I right to assume your injuries have much improved?"  
  
"For the most part," Oscar replies. "There's still a few aches and pains here and there, but the worst has healed now. It's just nice to feel bloody warm again, if I'm we're being truly honest."  
  
"If this is your idea of warm, Tevinter would feel as good as boiling to you. Still, it's good to know you escaped the threat of becoming an icicle, Inquisitor."  
  
Dorian's tone is laced in humour, and Oscar knows it is because he is being teased by him. He scrunches his nose up at hearing Dorian refer to him by his newest title, instantly building a dislike for the way it sounds coming from him.  
  
"Fancy new title or not Dorian, you are still to speak to me by my own name whenever we're together like this. Otherwise I fear I may forget what my actual name is."  
  
"But as you just said yourself, the title is so fancy. It simply rolls of the tongue to say," Dorian sighs, attempting to sound almost wistful as he continues. "To think, being both a leader and protector, as well as a symbol of which people will now look to for guidance. The Inquisition is now officially moulded by your very hands. For a normal man, that could very well be a bad thing. But for the Herald..."  
  
"I'm still just as normal as anyone else, you know. I'm not overly special."  
  
"Hardly," Dorian replies, albeit quietly. The volume of his voice rises again as he carries on, acting as if the word hadn't even been said. "I'm trying to congratulate you on your position, but you're ruining it."  
  
"And by congratulating me you thought to point out all the heavy and looming responsibilities I've now adopted?" Asks Oscar. Dorian gives a small shrug of his shoulder, his mischievous smile returning.  
  
"Just making sure you remain grounded at the same time. Don't worry, you needn't thank me."  
  
Oscar suppresses the urge to roll his eyes fondly, knowing how Dorian is clearly having fun with their exchanging of words. After a long pause Oscar's own smile falls slightly, and he glances down towards his feet briefly, forehead furrowing into a small frown.  
  
"In all seriousness, I'm still not quite used to it all," He admits. "It was difficult enough suddenly being known to all as the Herald, to be the Inquisitor too? It still feels like it's a lot of work for just one man."  
  
"You'll be just fine."  
  
The friendly teasing behind Dorian's words is gone as he speaks. Instead they are replaced with a softness, compassionate in their tone and offering Oscar support. His gaze returns to him, looking up to see that Dorian's eyes are warm with the same compassion which has laced itself into his words, drawing him in deeper beneath the spell-like haze Oscar sometimes feels when in Dorian's company lately. Dorian is enchanting and interesting upon normal occasions, yet a few times now Oscar has felt as if he has been allowed to see another part of him; a part which Dorian often doesn't open up and show others. Whatever it is he is seeing he's not sure, yet Oscar finds he likes it all the same. Welcomes it, even.  
  
"From what I could see, you were more or less leading this merry band of misfits beforehand. Now it's just been made official, through the means of one rather interesting speech crafted on the spot and a sword which is much too large to ever hold any practical use to it. Even with your new title you're not doing everything by yourself either, as you have many trustworthy people carrying out various tasks in which to somehow offer their aid to the Inquisition. Which reminds me, I should probably inform you that I've contacted a friend of mine back within Tevinter. She has a few books I require for some research I'm planning to do, and so I've asked her to send them. It's very likely you know her, as her last message I received mentioned that she had contacted you personally."  
  
"The only letter I can recall receiving from Tevinter that was enlightening and worthwhile was from someone called Maevaris," says Oscar, trying to think back through the messages and requests Josephine had handed to him to read and respond.  
  
"That's her," Dorian acknowledges, seemingly glad he hadn't managed to step on any toes. "Lovely woman, truly. One of those rare breeds of people who wishes to see Tevinter one day become the true glory it can be, instead of the mess of what it currently stands to be."  
  
"Ah. Now I'm starting to understand why it is you two get along so well," Oscar says, remembering the letter she had sent him along with the added concern she had over Dorian's adjusting to the Southern climate. He had expected Maevaris to be an ally anyway from what he had gathered by reading the message she had sent to him, but Dorian's words were exactly the extra confirmation he needed to know she was certainly on their side.  
  
"Inquisitor?"  
  
Oscar cranes his neck to look up above him in the direction of the sudden interruption, quickly spotting where Leliana stood from the floor above. In some of the cages nearest to her the crows flap their wings, cawing loudly as they move about in the small space of their cages. In the few weeks they'd so far been staying at Skyhold already many people had discovered how it was always difficult getting them to quiet down again once they'd started to make noise; one of the many disadvantages found whenever people were trying to work or study in the library with some semblance of peace and quiet.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Forgive me for interrupting, but I was beginning to wonder how long it would be until you brought me that report you're currently holding on to. I do rather need it, after all."   
  
Oscar lets out a sigh, reaching to pinch lightly at the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Right, sorry," He says, missing the way both Dorian and Leliana smile at him. "I'll be right with you in a moment."  
  
"Of course. I shall see to the birds while I wait."   
  
Before she moves away Leliana looks towards Dorian, offering him a small nod of acknowledgement. Oscar lets his hand fall back to his side once more, turning back to Dorian, who still holds on to his smile.  
  
"Seems like you're needed elsewhere. There's just simply no rest for you now you're the centre of it all, is there?"  
  
"Unfortunately it seems there really isn't," Oscar replies, shaking his head. "After meeting with Leliana I have to check in with the new arcanist, since they've now arrived and are currently settling themselves in. I also need to speak to the blacksmith at some point today about getting a new staff made up too, otherwise I'm going to be of very little use in any future fights we're likely to encounter."  
  
Something seems to dawn over Dorian's face at Oscar's words. Before he can question or ask what it is however Dorian takes one step forward, carefully making sure not to stand upon any of the stacks of the books still gathered near the bookcase.  
  
"I may be able to help with at least one of those things. Wait here for a moment."  
  
Oscar watches Dorian quickly makes his way to the alcove nearby -- one which Dorian had quickly claimed as his own, likely due to the rather comfortable looking large red chair they were able to salvage  which now sits proudly in the space, as well as the window next to it looking out onto the grounds below. Confusion colours his expression as Oscar raises a curious eyebrow, attempting to let his gaze inconspicuously follow where Dorian's disappeared to. As Dorian returns Oscar straightens his posture once again in an act of nonchalance, although as he comes to realise what it is Dorian holds within his hands Oscar can't do anything to stop the surprise that lightens his face; nor the way his eyes widen owlishly.  
  
"Is that ... my old staff?"  
  
The question is asked amongst an air of disbelief, and Dorian slows to stand where he had before. He extends his hands out towards Oscar, offering the staff which rests upon them towards him, and from closer inspection Oscar knows for certain that it is definitely his.  
  
"I was certain I'd lost this for good..."   
  
His words drift off, with Oscar tentatively reaching out towards the object. He hesitates for a second, and Dorian lightly gestures encouragingly, enough so that Oscar tucks the report he's holding for Leliana under one arm and decides to reach forward to take the staff from him. He carries it with delicacy, lifting it up a little into the air as his eyes rake over it.  
  
It looks infinitely better compared to the last time he had held it. The staff glistened a glorious golden, reminding him of the earlier days he had seen it, long before Oscar had even been its owner. It amazes him how all the dirt which had coated and managed to stick to the staff has been cleaned off, and Oscar doesn’t want to consider how long it had taken to have it looking the way it did now. He'd attempted to clean it up once or twice himself before now, but always found the task much too tedious and dull, quickly giving up in favour of continuing with something more interesting. Now however even the intricately crafted dragon which sits upon it looks as fresh as the day the staff had been created.  
  
What's more impressive than its colour are the repairs which have been made. The shattered blade attached to the bottom of the staff has gone, replaced with a new one which appeared to be made of a much stronger material. The fabric for hand support has been replaced; the tired, frayed piece exchanged for a fresher, smoother one which is of a royal blue in colour. Yet as well as that Oscar can't ignore the way the staff now thrums with an inner energy, and upon closer inspection he notices how within its golden hue there is an ever so faint light blue pulsing through it, almost as if it were some kind of heartbeat.  
  
Enchanted. Dorian had only gone and had the staff enchanted for him, of all things.  
  
"When ... How did you manage to do all this?" Asks Oscar, awe lacing its way within his words.  
  
"I found the time, here and there," Oscar hears Dorian reply. "I grabbed the staff back during our battle at Haven with the intention of throwing it back your way, but when that didn't work out quite as planned due to a certain archdemon interrupting what was our collective big heroic moment...

"Instead I managed to find some useful supplies lying around from what we’d managed to hold onto whilst people were being evacuated, and so started to repair it while you were busy recovering your strength."

“Repair it? You’ve gone and managed to improve it.” Oscar looks from the staff to Dorian once more, letting out a small breath of laughter from his surprise. “I can’t believe you did this for me. Why? There’s been so much going on as of late, what made you want to take on such a task?”

“You couldn’t very well continue on with your work without a means of defending yourself now, could you? Besides, I always had an impression it was something of importance to you.”

“It is,” says Oscar honestly.

Lowering the staff so that he could hold it by his side, Oscar’s grip tightens around it as he welcomes the familiarity of carrying it once again. He hesitates for a brief moment after having spoken, watching how Dorian’s eyebrows raise in interest. He wonders if he should continue, if he should speak of the past he tries to keep locked away so as not to be lost in pitying himself. Oscar reminds himself quickly how Dorian had gone to the trouble of repairing and returning his staff to him, even without knowing the story behind why Oscar treasured it as much as he did. Dorian, who had no idea of its meaning, only judging by his own assumptions of having gotten to know Oscar that it was of some kind of worth or sentimental importance to him. That alone is enough to help sway Oscar's decision, and as he continues to feel overwhelmed and accepting of Dorian's kindness, he chooses to open up. If only slightly.

“Back when I was first sent to Ostwick’s Circle, I had nothing. I didn’t bring any sort of memento with me from my home beforehand, and most mages there had little in the way of personal possessions. Whatever I did have was the same for everyone else like me; we had the same style of robes, the same books to begin studying our magic from, the same amount of freedom and boundaries. Even our rooms were more or less designed to be the same.

“Within the first few years our Circle’s First Enchanter took notice of me. She saw a potential in what I could do with my magic, what I was learning and how quickly I was learning to control aspects to it. So, she decided to take me on as one of her own apprentices. It was seen as a great honour for anyone to be chosen as such, especially for what it could lead to later on down the line in terms of your role within the Circle. When I was twenty-four I was granted the title of Enchanter, allowing me to become a candidate in succeeding her role if she were to ever step down from her responsibilities in her future.

“I remained an Enchanter for three years, the last of which being the year Kirkwall fell to pieces. Our Circle was neutral at first as many of our mages wanted no part in the conflict or the rebellion, but as much as that was what was publicly shared the First Enchanter knew our own peace wasn’t going to last for much longer. And so one day she visited me in secret, telling me that if anything were to happen in the future, I was to escape and take as many other mages and apprentices with me. Even then I sensed she knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t question it. I trusted her word, respected it even, enough that I agreed to her wishes. She smiled at me sadly afterwards before handing me her staff, saying she had always intended to pass it on to me eventually anyway. I guess it was her way of letting me know I was her favourite pupil throughout the years she’d taught me."

Oscar glances down to the staff he holds again, a sad smile softening his lips from the painful memories he is recalling.

“Three weeks later, the First Enchanter was assassinated. Libertarians, apparently; the rare few mages who had banded together and begun to argue Ostwick's Circle was just as much a prison to us as any other. Once the First Enchanter was gone, all those who opposed the Circle started their rebellion. Some of the Templars took over and began to abuse their own powers, the libertarians fought harder until they were threatened with tranquility… It was the beginning of chaos. I did what I could, _gathered_ who I could -- attempted to protect them whilst carrying this very staff gifted to me by someone who had faith that I could help somehow -- yet it quickly grew too dangerous there, even for me and the other Enchanters like me.

“Despite it becoming mine during such a desperate time, the staff is all I have of any of my life before what happened at the Conclave,” says Oscar, looking back towards Dorian. “It is my only reminder of who I used to be before the world saw me as it does now. Even if the events it was gifted to me were filled with fear and sadness, I treasure it. Because it is _mine_. To have something like that back when I was so certain it had been lost for good … that seriously means more than I can say. So thank you, Dorian. I truly, truly appreciate this."

“I’m not really sure how to respond to everything you just told me, if I'm honest," Dorian confesses, appearing shocked at all he had just heard. Yet within the surprise Oscar detects softness, masked almost by the other emotions playing across his face. "I knew Southern Circles had troubles, but it's different hearing of the sorts of things that truly happened. Circles in Tevnter are quite different, in comparison. Regardless, I am glad to have helped return something to you that carries such weighted meaning with it."

Oscar's smile grows warmer, that softness he spotted leaking its way into Dorian's words. Dorian clears his throat suddenly, straightening his back as he scowls slightly, attempting to hold his expression into what Oscar suspects is an attempt of normality.

"That _is_ to say it took me quite some time to enchant it with the lightning rune I had. Impossibly difficult when there are little to no supplies to use which could have aided me, and to hear you'd enquired about an arcanist just after I'd managed to pull one last trick out of my sleeve? I almost need only have waited."

A laugh escapes Oscar as he shakes his head, returning to the usual exchanging of quips that he is used to when speaking with Dorian. Yet even still he remains thankful, unable to ignore the butterflies that still flutter dangerously within his chest at Dorian's kindness.

He can't recall a time he's felt such a sensation before, at least not in recent memory.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"Believe me, I can understand why Seeker's upset. But what was I supposed to do? Hand Hawke over at the drop of a hat? Like that was ever going to happen."

Oscar lifts the mug he's holding to his lips, drinking as he continues to listen to Varric from where he sits beside him. After having walked in on Cassandra and Varric having a rather heated disagreement -- subject relating to the sudden appearance of one Scarlet Hawke, no less -- Oscar had decided to join the saddened dwarf for an evening at the tavern.

Of course, what he forgot to count on was how it would inevitably end up with Varric questioning the way he had gone about the situation regarding the Champion of Kirkwall, wondering if he acted in the right way or if rather he had just -- in his own elegantly put words -- 'managed to balls everything up'.

Truthfully, feeling as if he were rather a newcomer to whatever ongoing feud was happening between them Oscar thinks he isn't really the best person qualified to answer such weighted queries. Yet he is more than happy to lend a listening ear out to a friend, which Varric apparently seems to need.

"It sounded to me Cassandra originally intended for Hawke to take on the role of Inquisitor. If she had agreed to do so, that is.”

"It wouldn't have worked to Seeker’s plan even if she had managed to find her," Varric says, staring hard into his own mug. Oscar continues watching him with interest. "Scarlet wasn't in the right state of mind to lead a movement as large as this one back when the Conclave exploded. She still isn't, I don't think. After leaving Kirkwall for a while she needed the time to be by herself and to grieve for Anders. Regardless of how things had ended between them Hawke had once been crazy for Blondie, and if the fact he died wasn’t enough to break her heart then it was that he had done so by her own hand. It's only over these past few months since she's been travelling with Fenris that she’s really been healing from her pain. I felt she deserved to stay in that happiness rather than being tied up in all our shit. But then Corypheus had to go and show up at the centre of it all...

“Regardless, I’ve never truly lied about Hawke’s whereabouts. Maybe I’ve bent the truth slightly and kept a few important details hidden, but not lied completely like Cassandra makes it seem. And I wasn’t lying either when I told Cassandra that we already have a great leader for our Inquisition. I think you're a better fit than anyone for the job, Pretty Boy."

"I wish you'd find me a better nickname already," Oscar sighs, taking another drink from what's left in his mug. "I get it, though. You wanted to protect your friend. That's a good thing, and shows how loyal you are towards the friendship you and Hawke share. Cassandra will soon calm down enough to see that herself."

“You’re more optimistic about that happening than I am.”

“Well she can’t stay mad at you forever.” Oscar pushes his now empty mug away from himself, turning a little in his seat to face Varric better. “She can try, but I think some topic of conversation would eventually pop up that would have her bickering with you again. That’s what you two do, it’s pretty much your normal.”

Varric gives a small chuckle to himself at the comment, mug paused at his lips. He takes a long drink, pulling the mug away and looking within it after, disappointed at the sudden lack of his beverage and setting it down on the table.

“I suppose there’s a truth in that. Right now however, I really could do with another drink. You?”

“If you’re offering,” Oscar replies, sliding his mug across the table and towards Varric.

“Make that one for me too,” A third voice adds.

Both Varric and Oscar turn in time to see Dorian take the seat free on Oscar’s other side, treating the spot as if it had been intended for him in the first place. They ignore the selection of hushed whispers which begin to hum from some of the patrons seated at nearby tables -- all having already grown used to being the centre point of some sort of idle gossip by now -- and instead Oscar welcomes Dorian's sudden appearance with an almost dazzling smile of his own.

“Sparkler, how good of you to join us! And just in time for the next round of drinks too!"

“I assume it’s that vile stuff all you Southerners carry such an acquired taste for again, yes? Is it truly so difficult to stock some good wines around here instead?”

"It's called beer. And admit it, you don’t think it’s all that bad,” Says Varric. He picks up both his and Oscar’s mugs, rising to stand onto his feet once more. “Damned Vints and their addictions to their wines. I’ll be right back, don't start having too much fun without me.”

Oscar watches Varric as he disappears to get their drinks, sighing heavily once the dwarf is out of earshot. He rubs a hand against his forehead, wrinkling it slightly as he attempts to clear the events of the long day he's had out of his mind for the time being. Dorian notices the heaviness of the action, leaning forward as his arms rest upon the wooden table comfortably.

“Uh oh,” Dorian says, watching him in a way Oscar himself can more or less feel from how his skin begins to tingle and his ears feel as if they've started to burn somehow at their tops. “That didn’t seem like a great sound you just made there. Not a good time meeting with the illustrious Champion of Kirkwall then, I take it?”

“Meeting her was fine,” Oscar answers, letting his hand fall away and his attention return towards Dorian. “It was rather interesting even, though I would have enjoyed it even more if I were to have the time to speak ask about her latest travels. It’s actually the disagreements which have arisen from that meeting that are managing to drain my energy right now. Cassandra’s upset with Varric, Varric’s now upset with Cassandra, they’re both upset with themselves … you know, the usual way guilt likes to travel full circle.”

“Aren’t they always upset with one another in some way?” Asks Dorian. Oscar shrugs a shoulder in response.

“Usually. They’ll be back to themselves eventually, I think the fact this time it’s about Hawke just makes things all the more tense between them. But other than that --” Oscar pauses, giving Dorian a questioning look. “I’ve been thinking...”

“Oddly dangerous for you.”

“Shush you, and let me ask you something,” Oscar says around a bubble of his own laughter. “How do you feel about going on an adventure sometime rather soon? I’m currently putting the final plans in motion with my advisors for our next mission, and one of the only things left I have to figure out is who’s going alongside me...”

“...And naturally, your first thought fell to me. Which of course it did, and may I be the first to tell you that you have excellent taste in it doing so too.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” says Oscar. “I promise there won’t be as much rain this time around. Or any oceans.”

“All that tells me is that you’re not planning on going to the Storm Coast for once. There’s many other places you could be planning on going that are just as atrocious,” Dorian grins -- _grins_ \-- and once again Oscar can’t help but to find Dorian’s light mood that evening welcoming. “Nonetheless, I will join you. Maker knows you’ll likely miss my presence too much if I don’t. I do tend to make things much more interesting, after all.”

“I’ll admit, you do always find something new to complain about.”

Dorian huffs out a breath of feigned indignation. “I do not. I only complain when the occasion truly calls for it.”

“Did I just hear that right?”

The sound of Varric’s voice at his return prompts both Oscar and Dorian to face him, and the first thing Oscar notices -- other than the mugs of drink which Varric is holding -- is the look of amusement which has appeared on his face. Compared to how upset he had been not only moments ago whilst they were speaking Oscar can’t help but to be glad to see the happiness which is slowly but surely growing, a silent sign to say Varric is starting to to cheer up. Oscar puts the change in mood down to Dorian having now joined them for drinks, knowing that the two of them have grown to be quite close friends as of late.

“Sparkler, you manage to complain about anything you can find a reason to complain for, regardless of if the occasion calls for it or not.”

“I resent that,” Dorian replies, reaching for one of the mugs Varric sets on the table. “I hardly complain as much as you two are making it seem like I do.”

“Are we talking about the same Dorian?” Oscar asks, his own smile stretching across his face. “Because if I remember rightly, it was only yesterday you complained about half the topics of the books in my library.”

“That was a justified complaint, your so called library is atrocious. How is anyone supposed to find anything within it that’s in any way useful to them?”

“By looking, hopefully.”

“As much as I’d love to sit here and list all the ways in which Sparkler has complained in the last week alone -- which is, realistically, quite a lot --” Varric interrupts, stopping Dorian before he is able to form a response back in his defence. “-- I’m thinking it might actually be safer for both of us, Inquisitor, if we move onto something else. How about we all start up a game of Wicked Grace instead? I happen to have my cards on me right now, and I might have managed to bump into Sera and convince her to join us for a game shortly.”

“Just out of my own curiosity, but do you often carry those cards around with you Varric?” asks Dorian. “Or were you just hoping to fit a game in at some point during the evening?”

“Does it really matter either way?” Varric replies with a  laugh, already going to retrieve the cards from where he has them kept in his pocket. “The important thing is, are you both up for it? We can play for fun or, we can always place some bets. Raise the stakes a little.”

Dorian quickly agrees to the game, and when Varric raises his eyebrows in his direction in silent question, Oscar nods his approval to be involved too. As Varric begins to shuffle the cards however Oscar looks around, noticing a table nearby where Blackwall and Bull sit together -- the Bull’s Chargers gathered and chatting to each other close to them -- and he wonders if to ask them if they wished to join too. Varric picks up on where his gaze his focused, and just as Sera arrives to sit across the table from Dorian, the dwarf raises his voice and asks if the two warriors were interested too.

By the time Varric actually starts to deal the cards the table has become full with more of their little group. Blackwall and Bull have taken their seats -- Bull’s strange coloured mix of drink sitting before him, and Oscar’s not sure he wants to know what it is -- and as well as them Cole has managed to be talked into joining also. Oscar believes the spirit agreed more out of curiosity for what the game was about more than anything else, especially as he watches how interested Cole is at the various illustrated pictures on each card dealt his way. In an odd way Oscar considers how the sight could be somewhat endearing, especially with how Varric -- who is sitting beside the boy -- is more than happy to show Cole how it is he should play.

As he looks around the table and get’s involved with what’s going on, Oscar realises that it’s the first time in a long while that he’s played a game of cards among a group of people who he can say he trusts with confidence as well as who he considers are growing to become rather good friends of his. The last time he’d been part of such a thing must have been back when still remained within the walls of the Circle, the days in which someone had managed to sneak in a selection of cards to play from. He remembers how tatty and tired the cards had grown in their use, how many hours and late evenings had been spent in entertaining themselves with whatever games they could remember learning from their homes before being sent away, how each night would come to an end once a Templar on their patrol rounds caught them and ordered them back to their own dorms.

It’s such a small thing, something he had never considered he would miss somehow, yet as he continues to play now, Oscar recalls how it was those late evenings had always filled him with a sense of enjoyment. As he plays now surrounded by the exchanging of tales and laughter shared between one another Oscar carries the same feeling within him, and he realises that even with the looming threat of Corypheus, his Archdemon and his army of Templars standing against them in this battle they fight, there were still moments available to them where they could breath and find some happiness alongside one another.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Did she give you an estimated time of when she’d contact you?”

“For the final time Cassandra --” Oscar begins, focusing the majority of his attention onto making sure the saddle on his nuggalope is fitted and secured properly. “She did not. All Hawke said is that she’d send notice once she’d made contact with her Warden friend once more, and that the message would contain an encrypted location for our meeting point.”

“Well let’s hope that it is sooner, rather than later. I cannot help but worry deeply for whatever is happening to the Warden’s right now, especially since their strange disappearance.”

“You’re not the only one.”

Oscar takes a small step back, looking his nuggalope up and down before reaching to pet the creatures head affectionately. The nuggalope rubs their nose closer to the movement of Oscar’s hand, munching on the leaves it had been given a little earlier.

“Still, we have plenty of work to be doing until then. Are you ready for our journey?”

“Of course,” Cassandra replies. “I have been ready for some time. Remind me, you say that Harding’s scouts have set out ahead to search for this Fairbanks already?”

“They have. They left the morning before yesterday. Hopefully once we all get there, she’ll have some information for us waiting.”

Happy that all is well with his nuggalope, Oscar moves forward to push himself up onto the animal. Cassandra waits by his side, ready to help get him seated if needs be, and once Oscar is seated and as comfortable as can be on the saddle he turns and offers her a thankful smile.

“Find your horse, Lady Seeker. We’ll begin to move out once the rest of us are ready to do so.”

As Cassandra walks away, Oscar looks at the others nearby. Amongst their men and the small selection of soldiers that were joining them he quickly spots the familiar faces of those travelling with him; Varric with Bianca strapped against his back, Dorian sitting upon the horse he had quickly taken a liking to simply for its peculiar markings, Solas and his newer, warmer outfit and Sera with a new bow she had picked out for herself when they first moved into Skyhold. Along with Cassandra joining them Oscar thinks the group is a fine one, at least for their first expedition since Haven’s fall.

It is a relief almost, in a strange sort of way. So much time has passed due to both his recovery and the repairs made to Skyhold that it is somewhat exciting to finally be out helping the world once again. Especially now with more people seemingly interested in allying with their cause. New letters are being sent in each day regarding information about various leads in the area or sightings of something peculiar which could link back to Corypheus, the Templars, or even the Venatori from Tevinter. Oscar certainly expects their work will be keeping them all considerably busier now that the Inquisition is slowly becoming more recognised within Thedas, and he hopes that this link back to Fairbanks they are about to work with will be the beginning of things improving in their favour.

“Is everyone set? Remember, we won’t be coming back for a while if you leave something behind.”

“Yay, back to camping out in the middle of nowhere,” Sera replies sarcastically. “Just as I was getting used to four walls again finally.”

“I share that sentiment,” Agrees Dorian. “Although the Inquisitor did promise no rain or sea. That’s a good thing, is it not?”

“Yeah, until he leads us through more snow or something! Did you even ask where it is he’s taking us before agreeing? Probably not, otherwise you wouldn’t sound so happy about going to someplace called ‘Emerald Graves’.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Oscar says. “Maybe it’ll even be nice.”

“It has _graves_ in its name. _How_ will it be nice?”

“Argue that once we reach there,” Oscar hears Cassandra interrupt to say. “For now, let us simply depart first.”

Oscar casts a slow look over everyone first, making sure one final time that all are ready. With no interruptions and with no one having anything to say he gives a nod, sitting his back straighter as he turns to face forward and lifts the reigns holding his nuggalope.

For the first time in his life he is a leader, one which actually gives orders and commands to others around him. Even as the Herald his responsibilities had not carried as much weight as they do now, and as his foot lightly hits against the side of the nuggalope, Oscar knows he is being looked up to in a different way than before because of his new title, perhaps with even more respect by some than before. He attempts to seem graceful as his mount begins to move forward slowly, the golden parts of his armour beneath his new long, deep red coat shining under the light of the early morning sun sitting high in the frosty sky above them, as does the golden staff which rests proudly against his back.

The nuggalopes pace rises, and once he has moved far enough Oscar begins to hear the sound of the others following behind him. They do not run, only continue to walk as they pass over the bridge leading them out of Skyhold’s protective walls, yet once they have crossed it their movements begin to grow a little quicker. Oscar leads them down the beginnings of the rocky mountain path they took weeks before, back when they had first arrived at the keeps doors, and begins to trek onwards towards their next exploration within the far away Emerald Graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... And at this point, we reach the end of Herald's Miracle. 
> 
> I have always intended to have this little story end after the events of Haven, since this originally was just meant as a closer look at what happened and how Oscar would have slowly recovered after the injuries he faced. It became a sort of exploration into how the Inquisition itself slowly rebuilds, as well as a look into how some of the character friendships grow, which is probably why I am shocked to see this now reaching past the 30k mark in words. Words fly when you're having fun with your writing, apparently!
> 
> I am so very thankful for all the readers, kudos and comments this little thing has gotten since I started uploading. I wish to say a huge thankful to all who have enjoyed it, who have let me know that they have in some way -- no matter how small -- and an even bigger thank you for those that have had to put up with me whining about aspects of this over the past few months over Skype. It all means a lot, and I appreciate it greatly!
> 
> Oscar's story doesn't end here. I am continuing to write things in his series, and already have some ideas for what will come next. I really hope you'll stick around, especially if you've enjoyed the rest of his story outside of Herald's Miracle so far!
> 
> If you've enjoyed things and haven't already, please feel free to leave a comment or kudos. I _do_ respond to my replies, so if you have any questions too I am certain to answer them! Until then, I leave you with well wishes ... and hope to see you soon.


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